ailants in defense of the home."

Mike intimated that he was with him on the point. "The difficulty is,
though," he said, "about when we leave this room. I mean, we're all
right while we stick here, but we can't stay all night."

"That's just what I was about to point out when you put it with such
admirable clearness. Here we are in a stronghold; they can only get at
us through the door, and we can lock that."

"And jam a chair against it."

"_And_, as you rightly remark, jam a chair against it. But what of the
nightfall? What of the time when we retire to our dormitory?"

"Or dormitories. I say, if we're in separate rooms we shall be in the
cart."

Psmith eyed Mike with approval. "He thinks of everything! You're the
man, Comrade Jackson, to conduct an affair of this kind--such foresight!
such resource! We must see to this at once; if they put us in different
rooms we're done--we shall be destroyed singly in the watches of
the night."

"We'd better nip down to the matron right off."

"Not the matron--Comrade Outwood is the man. We are as sons to him;
there is nothing he can deny us. I'm afraid we are quite spoiling his
afternoon by these interruptions, but we must rout him out once more."

As they got up, the door handle rattled again, and this time there
followed a knocking.

"This must be an emissary of Comrade Spiller's," said Psmith. "Let us
parley with the man."

Mike unlocked the door. A light-haired youth with a cheerful, rather
vacant face and a receding chin strolled into the room, and stood
giggling with his hands in his pockets.

"I just came up to have a look at you," he explained.

"If you move a little to the left," said Psmith, "you will catch the
light-and-shade effects on Jackson's face better."

The newcomer giggled with renewed vigor. "Are you the chap with the
eyeglass who jaws all the time?"

"I _do_ wear an eyeglass," said Psmith; "as to the rest of the
description--"

"My name's Jellicoe."

"Mine is Psmith--P-s-m-i-t-h--one of the Shropshire Psmiths. The object
on the skyline is Comrade Jackson."

"Old Spiller," giggled Jellicoe, "is cursing you like anything
downstairs. You _are_ chaps! Do you mean to say you simply bagged his
study? He's making no end of a row about it."

"Spiller's fiery nature is a byword," said Psmith.

"What's he going to do?" asked Mike, in his practical way.

"He's going to get the chaps to turn you out."

"As I suspected," sighed Psmith, as on