* * * * *
Psmith and Mike sat in their study after lockup, discussing things in
general and the game in particular. "I feel like a beastly renegade,
playing against Wrykyn," said Mike. "Still, I'm glad we won. Adair's a
jolly good sort and it'll make him happy for weeks."
"When I last saw Comrade Adair," said Psmith, "he was going about in a
sort of trance, beaming vaguely and wanting to stand people things at
the shop."
"He bowled awfully well."
"Yes," said Psmith. "I say, I don't wish to cast a gloom over this
joyful occasion in any way, but you say Wrykyn are going to give
Sedleigh a fixture again next year?"
"Well?"
"Well, have you thought of the massacre which will ensue? You will have
left, Adair will have left. Incidentally, I shall have left. Wrykyn will
swamp them."
"I suppose they will. Still, the great thing, you see, is to get the
thing started. That's what Adair was so keen on. Now Sedleigh has beaten
Wrykyn, he's satisfied. They can get fixtures with decent clubs, and
work up to playing the big schools. You've got to start somehow. So it's
all right, you see."
"And, besides," said Psmith, reflectively, "in an emergency they can
always get Comrade Downing to bowl for them, what? Let us now sally out
and see if we can't promote a rag of some sort in this abode of wrath.
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