P G Wodehouse, page 1
The Manor Wodehouse Col ection
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The Little Warrior
The Swoop
William Tell Told Again
Mike: A Public School Story
Jill the Reckless
The Politeness of Princes & Other School Stories
The Man Upstairs & Other Stories
The Coming of Bill
A Man of Means: A Series of Six Stories
The Gem Collector
The Adventures of Sally
The Clicking of Cuthbert
A Damsel in Distress
Jeeves in the Springtime & Other Stories
The Pothunters
My Man Jeeves
The Girl on the Boat
Mike & Psmith
The White Feather
The Man With Two Left Feet & Other Stories
Piccadilly Jim
Psmith in the City
Right Ho, Jeeves
Uneasy Money
A Prefect’s Uncle
Psmith Journalist
The Prince and Betty
Something New
The Gold Bat & Other Stories
Head of Kay’s
The Intrusion of Jimmy
The Little Nugget
Love Among the Chickens
Tales of St. Austin’s
Indiscretions of Archie
Jeeves, Emsworth and Others
Mike and Psmith
P. G. Wodehouse
The Manor Wodehouse Collection
Tark Classic Fiction
an imprint of
MANOR
Rockville, Maryland
2008
Mike and Psmith by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, in its current format, copyright © Arc Manor 2008. Th
is book, in whole or in part, may not be copied or reproduced in its current format by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without the permission of the publisher.
Th
e original text has been reformatted for clarity and to fi t this edition.
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ISBN: 978-1-60450-066-0
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Manor Wodehouse Collection
Published by TARK Classic Fiction
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Contents
Preface
Mr. Jackson Makes up His Mind
Sedleigh
Psmith
Staking out a Claim
Guerrilla Warfare
Unpleasantness in the Small Hours
Adair
Mike Finds Occupation
The Fire Brigade Meeting
Achilles Leaves His Tent
The Match With Downing’s
The Singular Behavior of Jellicoe
Jellicoe Goes on the Sick List
Mike Receives a Commission
... And Fulfills It
Pursuit
The Decoration of Sammy
Mr. Downing on the Scent
The Sleuth-Hound
A Check
The Destroyer of Evidence
Mainly About Shoes
On the Trail Again
The Adair Method
Adair Has a Word With Mike
Clearing the Air
In Which Peace is Declared
Mr. Downing Moves
The Artist Claims His Work
Sedleigh V. Wrykyn
Preface
In Evelyn Waugh’s book Decline and Fall his hero, applying for a
post as a schoolmaster, is told by the agent, “We class schools in four
grades – leading school, fi rst-rate school, good school, and school.”
Sedleigh in Mike and Psmith would, I suppose, come into the last-
named class, though not quite as low in it as Mr. Waugh’s Llanabba.
It is one of those small English schools with aspirations one day
to be able to put the word “public” before their name and to have
their headmaster qualifi ed to attend the annual Headmaster’s Con-
ference. All it needs is a few more Adairs to get things going. And
there is this to be noted, that even at a “school” one gets an excel-
lent education. Its only drawback is that it does not play the leading
schools or the fi rst-rate schools or even the good schools at cricket.
But to Mike, fresh from Wrykyn (a “fi rst-rate school”) and Psmith,
coming from Eton (a “leading school”) Sedleigh naturally seemed
something of a comedown. It took Mike some time to adjust himself
to it, though Psmith, the philosopher, accepted the change of condi-
tions with his customary equanimity.
Th
is was the fi rst appearance of Psmith. He came into two other
books, Psmith in the City and Psmith, Journalist, before becoming happily married in Leave It to Psmith, but I have always thought that
he was most at home in this story of English school life. To give full
play to his bland clashings with Authority he needs to have author-
ity to clash with, and there is none more absolute than that of the
masters at an English school.
Psmith has the distinction of being the only one of my numer-
ous characters to be drawn from a living model. A cousin of mine
was at Eton with the son of D’Oyly Carte, the man who produced
5
P. G. WODEHOUSE
the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, and one night he told me about
this peculiar schoolboy who dressed fastidiously and wore a monocle
and who, when one of the masters inquired after his health, replied
“Sir, I grow thinnah and thinnah.” It was all the information I re-
quired in order to start building him in a star part.
If anyone is curious as to what became of Mike and Psmith in
later life, I can supply the facts. Mike, always devoted to country
life, ran a prosperous farm. Psmith, inevitably perhaps, became an
equally prosperous counselor at the bar like Perry Mason, special-
izing, like Perry, in appearing for the defense.
I must apologize, as I did in the preface to Mike at Wrykyn, for
all the cricket in this book. It was unavoidable. Th
ere is, however,
not quite so much of it this time.
P.G. Wodehouse.
6
Chapter
Mr. Jackson Makes up His Mind
If Mike had been in time for breakfast that fatal Easter morning he
might have gathered from the expression on his father’s face, as Mr.
Jackson opened the envelope containing his school report and read
the contents, that the document in question was not exactly a paean
of praise from beginning to end. But he was late, as usual. Mike
always was late for breakfast in the holidays.
When he came down on this particular morning, the meal was
nearly over. Mr. Jackson had disappeared, taking his correspondence
with him; Mrs. Jackson had gone into the kitchen, and when Mike
appeared the thing had resolved itself into a mere vulgar brawl be-
tween Phyllis and Ella for the jam, while Marjory, recently aff ect-
ing a grown-up air, looked on in a detached sort of way, as if these
juvenile gambols distressed her.
“Hello, Mike,” she said, jumping up as he entered, “here you are
– I’ve been keeping everything hot for you.”
“Have you? Th
anks awfully. I say ...” His eye wandered in mild
surprise round the table. “I’m a bit late.”
Marjory was bustling about, fetching and carrying for Mike,
as she
the thing thoroughly. She was fond of her other brothers, especially
when they made centuries in fi rst-class cricket, but Mike was her
favorite. She would fi eld out in the deep as a natural thing when
Mike was batting at the net in the paddock, though for the others,
even for Joe, who had played in all fi ve Test Matches in the previous
summer, she would do it only as a favor.
7
P. G. WODEHOUSE
Phyllis and Ella fi nished their dispute and went out. Marjory sat
on the table and watched Mike eat.
“Your report came this morning, Mike,” she said.
Th
e kidneys failed to retain Mike’s undivided attention. He
looked up interested. “What did it say?”
“I didn’t see – I only caught sight of the Wrykyn crest on the
envelope. Father didn’t say anything.”
Mike seemed concerned. “I say, that looks rather rotten! I won-
der if it was awfully bad. It’s the fi rst I’ve had from Appleby.”
“It can’t be any worse than the horrid ones Mr. Blake used to
write when you were in his form.”
“No, that’s a comfort,” said Mike philosophically. “Th
ink there’s
any more tea in that pot?”
“I call it a shame,” said Marjory; “they ought to be jolly glad to
have you at Wrykyn just for cricket, instead of writing beastly re-
ports that make father angry and don’t do any good to anybody.”
“Last Christmas he said he’d take me away if I got another
one.”
“He didn’t mean it really, I know he didn’t! He couldn’t! You’re
the best bat Wrykyn’s ever had.”
“What ho!” interpolated Mike.
“You are. Everybody says you are. Why, you got your fi rst the
very fi rst term you were there – even Joe didn’t do anything nearly so
good as that. Saunders says you’re simply bound to play for England
in another year or two.”
“Saunders is a jolly good chap. He bowled me a half volley on
the off the fi rst ball I had in a school match. By the way, I wonder if
he’s out at the net now. Let’s go and see.”
Saunders the professional was setting up the net when they ar-
rived. Mike put on his pads and went to the wicket, while Marjory
and the dogs retired as usual to the far hedge to retrieve.
She was kept busy. Saunders was a good sound bowler of the
M.C.C. minor match type, and there had been a time when he had
worried Mike considerably, but Mike had been in the Wrykyn team
for three seasons now, and each season he had advanced tremen-
dously in his batting. He had fi lled out in three years. He had always
had the style, and now he had the strength as well, Saunder’s bowl-
ing on a true wicket seemed simple to him. It was early in the Easter
8
MIKE AND PSMITH
holidays, but already he was beginning to fi nd his form. Saunders,
who looked on Mike as his own special invention, was delighted.
“If you don’t be worried by being too anxious now that you’re
captain, Master Mike,” he said, “you’ll make a century every match
next term.”
“I wish I wasn’t; it’s a beastly responsibility.”
Henfrey, the Wrykyn cricket captain of the previous season, was
not returning next term, and Mike was to reign in his stead. He liked
the prospect, but it certainly carried with it a rather awe-inspiring
responsibility. At night sometimes he would lie awake, appalled by
the fear of losing his form, or making a hash of things by choosing
the wrong men to play for the school and leaving the right men out.
It is no light thing to captain a public school at cricket.
As he was walking toward the house, Phyllis met him. “Oh, I’ve
been hunting for you, Mike; Father wants you.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
“He’s in the study. He seems ...” added Phyllis, throwing in the
information by a way of a makeweight, “in a beastly temper.”
Mike’s jaw fell slightly. “I hope the dickens it’s nothing to do
with that bally report,” was his muttered exclamation.
Mike’s dealings with his father were as a rule of a most pleasant
nature. Mr. Jackson was an understanding sort of man, who treated
his sons as companions. From time to time, however, breezes were
apt to ruffl
e the placid sea of good fellowship. Mike’s end-of-term
report was an unfailing wind raiser; indeed, on the arrival of Mr.
Blake’s sarcastic resume of Mike’s shortcomings at the end of the
previous term, there had been something not unlike a typhoon. It
was on this occasion that Mr. Jackson had solemnly declared his
intention of removing Mike from Wrykyn unless the critics became
more fl attering; and Mr. Jackson was a man of his word.
It was with a certain amount of apprehension, therefore, that
Jackson entered the study.
“Come in, Mike,” said his father, kicking the waste-paper bas-
ket; “I want to speak to you.”
Mike, skilled in omens, scented a row in the offi
ng. Only in
moments of emotion was Mr. Jackson in the habit of booting the
basket.
9
P. G. WODEHOUSE
Th
ere followed an awkward silence, which Mike broke by re-
marking that he had carted a half volley from Saunders over the
on-side hedge that morning.
“It was just a bit short and off the leg stump, so I stepped out –
may I bag the paper knife for a jiff y? I’ll just show—”
“Never mind about cricket now,” said Mr. Jackson; “I want you
to listen to this report.”
“Oh, is that my report, Father?” said Mike, with a sort of sickly
interest, much as a dog about to be washed might evince in his tub.
“It is,” replied Mr. Jackson in measured tones, “your report; what
is more, it is without exception the worst report you have ever had.”
“Oh, I say!” groaned the record-breaker.
“‘His conduct,’” quoted Mr. Jackson, “‘has been unsatisfactory
in the extreme, both in and out of school.’”
“It wasn’t anything really. I only happened—”
Remembering suddenly that what he had happened to do was to
drop a cannonball (the school weight) on the form-room fl oor, not
once, but on several occasions, he paused.
“‘French bad; conduct disgraceful – ’”
“Everybody rags in French.”
“‘Mathematics bad. Inattentive and idle.’”
“Nobody does much work in Math.”
“‘Latin poor. Greek, very poor.’”
“We were doing Th
ucydides, Book Two, last term – all speeches
and doubtful readings, and cruxes and things – beastly hard! Every-
body says so.”
“Here are Mr. Appleby’s remarks: ‘Th
e boy has genuine ability,
which he declines to use in the smallest degree.’”
Mike moaned a moan of righteous indignation.
“‘An abnormal profi ciency at games has apparently destroyed all
desire in him to realize the more serious issues of life.’ Th
ere is more
to the same eff ect.”
Mr. Appleby was a master with very defi nite ideas as to what
constituted a public-school master’s duties. As a man he was dis-
tinctly pro-Mike. He understood cricket, and some of Mike’s strokes
on the off gave him thrills of pure aesthetic joy; but as a master he
always made it his habit to regard the manners and customs of the
boys in his form with an unbiased eye, and to an unbiased eye Mike
10
MIKE AND PSMITH
in a form room was about as near the extreme edge as a boy could be,
and Mr. Appleby said as much in a clear fi rm hand.
“You remember what I said to you about your report at Christ-
mas, Mike?” said Mr. Jackson, folding the lethal document and re-
placing it in its envelope.
Mike said nothing; there was a sinking feeling in his interior.
“I shall abide by what I said.”
Mike’s heart thumped.
