Mike

“They won’t have.  If they have, stand by with your water-jug and douse it at once; then they’ll charge forward and all will be well.  If they have no candle, fling the water at a venture—­fire into the brown!  Lest we forget, I’ll collar Comrade Jellicoe’s jug now and keep it handy.  A couple of sheets would also not be amiss—­we will enmesh the enemy!”

“Right ho!” said Mike.

“These humane preparations being concluded,” said Psmith, “we will retire to our posts and wait.  Comrade Jellicoe, don’t forget to breathe like an asthmatic sheep when you hear the door opened; they may wait at the top of the steps, listening.”

“You are a chap!” said Jellicoe.

Waiting in the dark for something to happen is always a trying experience, especially if, as on this occasion, silence is essential.  Mike found his thoughts wandering back to the vigil he had kept with Mr. Wain at Wrykyn on the night when Wyatt had come in through the window and found authority sitting on his bed, waiting for him.  Mike was tired after his journey, and he had begun to doze when he was jerked back to wakefulness by the stealthy turning of the door-handle; the faintest rustle from Psmith’s direction followed, and a slight giggle, succeeded by a series of deep breaths, showed that Jellicoe, too, had heard the noise.

There was a creaking sound.

It was pitch-dark in the dormitory, but Mike could follow the invaders’ movements as clearly as if it had been broad daylight.  They had opened the door and were listening.  Jellicoe’s breathing grew more asthmatic; he was flinging himself into his part with the whole-heartedness of the true artist.

The creak was followed by a sound of whispering, then another creak.  The enemy had advanced to the top step....  Another creak....  The vanguard had reached the second step....  In another moment——­

CRASH!

And at that point the proceedings may be said to have formally opened.

A struggling mass bumped against Mike’s shins as he rose from his chair; he emptied his jug on to this mass, and a yell of anguish showed that the contents had got to the right address.

Then a hand grabbed his ankle and he went down, a million sparks dancing before his eyes as a fist, flying out at a venture, caught him on the nose.

Mike had not been well-disposed towards the invaders before, but now he ran amok, hitting out right and left at random.  His right missed, but his left went home hard on some portion of somebody’s anatomy.  A kick freed his ankle and he staggered to his feet.  At the same moment a sudden increase in the general volume of noise spoke eloquently of good work that was being put in by Psmith.

Even at that crisis, Mike could not help feeling that if a row of this calibre did not draw Mr. Outwood from his bed, he must be an unusual kind of house-master.

He plunged forward again with outstretched arms, and stumbled and fell over one of the on-the-floor section of the opposing force.  They seized each other earnestly and rolled across the room till Mike, contriving to secure his adversary’s head, bumped it on the floor with such abandon that, with a muffled yell, the other let go, and for the second time he rose.  As he did so he was conscious of a curious thudding sound that made itself heard through the other assorted noises of the battle.

All this time the fight had gone on in the blackest darkness, but now a light shone on the proceedings.  Interested occupants of other dormitories, roused from their slumbers, had come to observe the sport.  They were crowding in the doorway with a candle.

By the light of this Mike got a swift view of the theatre of war.  The enemy appeared to number five.  The warrior whose head Mike had bumped on the floor was Robinson, who was sitting up feeling his skull in a gingerly fashion.  To Mike’s right, almost touching him, was Stone.  In the direction of the door, Psmith, wielding in his right hand the cord of a dressing-gown, was engaging the remaining three with a patient smile.  They were clad in pyjamas, and appeared to be feeling the dressing-gown cord acutely.

The sudden light dazed both sides momentarily.  The defence was the first to recover, Mike, with a swing, upsetting Stone, and Psmith, having seized and emptied Jellicoe’s jug over Spiller, getting to work again with the cord in a manner that roused the utmost enthusiasm of the spectators.

Agility seemed to be the leading feature of Psmith’s tactics.  He was everywhere—­on Mike’s bed, on his own, on Jellicoe’s (drawing a passionate complaint from that non-combatant, on whose face he inadvertently trod), on the floor—­he ranged the room, sowing destruction.

The enemy were disheartened; they had started with the idea that this was to be a surprise attack, and it was disconcerting to find the garrison armed at all points.  Gradually they edged to the door, and a final rush sent them through.

“Hold the door for a second,” cried Psmith, and vanished.  Mike was alone in the doorway.