Mike

“Don’t tell Smith why you want it, will you?  I don’t want anybody to know—­if a thing once starts getting about it’s all over the place in no time.”

“All right, I won’t tell him.”

“I say, thanks most awfully!  I don’t know what I should have done, I——­”

“Oh, chuck it!” said Mike.

CHAPTER XLIV AND FULFILS IT

Mike started on his ride to Lower Borlock with mixed feelings.  It is pleasant to be out on a fine night in summer, but the pleasure is to a certain extent modified when one feels that to be detected will mean expulsion.

Mike did not want to be expelled, for many reasons.  Now that he had grown used to the place he was enjoying himself at Sedleigh to a certain extent.  He still harboured a feeling of resentment against the school in general and Adair in particular, but it was pleasant in Outwood’s now that he had got to know some of the members of the house, and he liked playing cricket for Lower Borlock; also, he was fairly certain that his father would not let him go to Cambridge if he were expelled from Sedleigh.  Mr. Jackson was easy-going with his family, but occasionally his foot came down like a steam-hammer, as witness the Wrykyn school report affair.

So Mike pedalled along rapidly, being wishful to get the job done without delay.

Psmith had yielded up the key, but his inquiries as to why it was needed had been embarrassing.  Mike’s statement that he wanted to get up early and have a ride had been received by Psmith, with whom early rising was not a hobby, with honest amazement and a flood of advice and warning on the subject.

“One of the Georges,” said Psmith, “I forget which, once said that a certain number of hours’ sleep a day—­I cannot recall for the moment how many—­made a man something, which for the time being has slipped my memory.  However, there you are.  I’ve given you the main idea of the thing; and a German doctor says that early rising causes insanity.  Still, if you’re bent on it——­” After which he had handed over the key.

Mike wished he could have taken Psmith into his confidence.  Probably he would have volunteered to come, too; Mike would have been glad of a companion.

It did not take him long to reach Lower Borlock.  The “White Boar” stood at the far end of the village, by the cricket field.  He rode past the church—­standing out black and mysterious against the light sky—­and the rows of silent cottages, until he came to the inn.

The place was shut, of course, and all the lights were out—­it was some time past eleven.

The advantage an inn has over a private house, from the point of view of the person who wants to get into it when it has been locked up, is that a nocturnal visit is not so unexpected in the case of the former.  Preparations have been made to meet such an emergency.  Where with a private house you would probably have to wander round heaving rocks and end by climbing up a water-spout, when you want to get into an inn you simply ring the night-bell, which, communicating with the boots’ room, has that hard-worked menial up and doing in no time.

After Mike had waited for a few minutes there was a rattling of chains and a shooting of bolts and the door opened.

“Yes, sir?” said the boots, appearing in his shirt-sleeves.  “Why, ’ullo!  Mr. Jackson, sir!”

Mike was well known to all dwellers in Lower Borlock, his scores being the chief topic of conversation when the day’s labours were over.

“I want to see Mr. Barley, Jack.”

“He’s bin in bed this half-hour back, Mr. Jackson.”

“I must see him.  Can you get him down?”

The boots looked doubtful.  “Roust the guv’nor outer bed?” he said.

Mike quite admitted the gravity of the task.  The landlord of the “White Boar” was one of those men who need a beauty sleep.

“I wish you would—­it’s a thing that can’t wait.  I’ve got some money to give to him.”

“Oh, if it’s that—­” said the boots.

Five minutes later mine host appeared in person, looking more than usually portly in a check dressing-gown and red bedroom slippers of the Dreadnought type.

“You can pop off, Jack.”

Exit boots to his slumbers once more.

“Well, Mr. Jackson, what’s it all about?”

“Jellicoe asked me to come and bring you the money.”

“The money?  What money?”

“What he owes you; the five pounds, of course.”

“The five—­” Mr. Barley stared open-mouthed at Mike for a moment; then he broke into a roar of laughter which shook the sporting prints on the wall and drew barks from dogs in some distant part of the house.  He staggered about laughing and coughing till Mike began to expect a fit of some kind.  Then he collapsed into a chair, which creaked under him, and wiped his eyes.

“Oh dear!” he said, “oh dear! the five pounds!”