Mike

“My dear Outwood,” snapped the sleuth, “I thought I had made it perfectly clear.  Where is the difficulty?”

“I cannot understand why you should suspect Smith of keeping his boots in a cupboard, and,” added Mr. Outwood with spirit, catching sight of a Good-Gracious-has-the-man-no-sense look on the other’s face,” why he should not do so if he wishes it.”

“Exactly, sir,” said Psmith, approvingly.  “You have touched the spot.”

“If I must explain again, my dear Outwood, will you kindly give me your attention for a moment.  Last night a boy broke out of your house, and painted my dog Sampson red.”

“He painted—!” said Mr. Outwood, round-eyed.  “Why?”

“I don’t know why.  At any rate, he did.  During the escapade one of his boots was splashed with the paint.  It is that boot which I believe Smith to be concealing in this cupboard.  Now, do you understand?”

Mr. Outwood looked amazedly at Smith, and Psmith shook his head sorrowfully at Mr. Outwood.  Psmith’a expression said, as plainly as if he had spoken the words, “We must humour him.”

“So with your permission, as Smith declares that he has lost the key, I propose to break open the door of this cupboard.  Have you any objection?”

Mr. Outwood started.

“Objection?  None at all, my dear fellow, none at all.  Let me see, what is it you wish to do?”

“This,” said Mr. Downing shortly.

There was a pair of dumb-bells on the floor, belonging to Mike.  He never used them, but they always managed to get themselves packed with the rest of his belongings on the last day of the holidays.  Mr. Downing seized one of these, and delivered two rapid blows at the cupboard-door.  The wood splintered.  A third blow smashed the flimsy lock.  The cupboard, with any skeletons it might contain, was open for all to view.

Mr. Downing uttered a cry of triumph, and tore the boot from its resting-place.

“I told you,” he said.  “I told you.”

“I wondered where that boot had got to,” said Psmith.  “I’ve been looking for it for days.”

Mr. Downing was examining his find.  He looked up with an exclamation of surprise and wrath.

“This boot has no paint on it,” he said, glaring at Psmith.  “This is not the boot.”

“It certainly appears, sir,” said Psmith sympathetically, “to be free from paint.  There’s a sort of reddish glow just there, if you look at it sideways,” he added helpfully.

“Did you place that boot there, Smith?”

“I must have done.  Then, when I lost the key——­”

“Are you satisfied now, Downing?” interrupted Mr. Outwood with asperity, “or is there any more furniture you wish to break?”

The excitement of seeing his household goods smashed with a dumb-bell had made the archaeological student quite a swashbuckler for the moment.  A little more, and one could imagine him giving Mr. Downing a good, hard knock.

The sleuth-hound stood still for a moment, baffled.  But his brain was working with the rapidity of a buzz-saw.  A chance remark of Mr. Outwood’s set him fizzing off on the trail once more.  Mr. Outwood had caught sight of the little pile of soot in the grate.  He bent down to inspect it.

“Dear me,” he said, “I must remember to have the chimneys swept.  It should have been done before.”

Mr. Downing’s eye, rolling in a fine frenzy from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, also focussed itself on the pile of soot; and a thrill went through him.  Soot in the fireplace!  Smith washing his hands! ("You know my methods, my dear Watson.  Apply them.”)

Mr. Downing’s mind at that moment contained one single thought; and that thought was “What ho for the chimney!”

He dived forward with a rush, nearly knocking Mr. Outwood off his feet, and thrust an arm up into the unknown.  An avalanche of soot fell upon his hand and wrist, but he ignored it, for at the same instant his fingers had closed upon what he was seeking.

“Ah,” he said.  “I thought as much.  You were not quite clever enough, after all, Smith.”

“No, sir,” said Psmith patiently.  “We all make mistakes.”

“You would have done better, Smith, not to have given me all this trouble.  You have done yourself no good by it.”

“It’s been great fun, though, sir,” argued Psmith.

“Fun!” Mr. Downing laughed grimly.  “You may have reason to change your opinion of what constitutes——­”

His voice failed as his eye fell on the all-black toe of the boot.  He looked up, and caught Psmith’s benevolent gaze.  He straightened himself and brushed a bead of perspiration from his face with the back of his hand.  Unfortunately, he used the sooty hand, and the result was like some gruesome burlesque of a nigger minstrel.

“Did—­you—­put—­that—­boot—­there, Smith?” he asked slowly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then what did you MEAN by putting it there?” roared Mr. Downing.

“Animal spirits, sir,” said Psmith.

“WHAT!”

“Animal spirits, sir.”

What Mr. Downing would have replied to this one cannot tell, though one can guess roughly.  For, just as he was opening his mouth, Mr. Outwood, catching sight of his Chirgwin-like countenance, intervened.