for us," said Psmith approvingly.

"I suppose it belongs to some rotter."

"Not now."

"You aren't going to collar it!"

"That," said Psmith, looking at himself earnestly in the mirror, and
straightening his tie, "is the exact programme. We must stake out our
claims. This is practical Socialism."

"But the real owner's bound to turn up some time or other."

"His misfortune, not ours. You can't expect two master-minds like us
to pig it in that room downstairs. There are moments when one wants to
be alone. It is imperative that we have a place to retire to after a
fatiguing day. And now, if you want to be really useful, come and help
me fetch up my box from downstairs. It's got an Etna and various
things in it."

CHAPTER XXXIII

STAKING OUT A CLAIM

Psmith, in the matter of decorating a study and preparing tea in it,
was rather a critic than an executant. He was full of ideas, but he
preferred to allow Mike to carry them out. It was he who suggested
that the wooden bar which ran across the window was unnecessary, but
it was Mike who wrenched it from its place. Similarly, it was Mike who
abstracted the key from the door of the next study, though the idea
was Psmith's.

"Privacy," said Psmith, as he watched Mike light the Etna, "is what we
chiefly need in this age of publicity. If you leave a study door
unlocked in these strenuous times, the first thing you know is,
somebody comes right in, sits down, and begins to talk about himself.
I think with a little care we ought to be able to make this room quite
decently comfortable. That putrid calendar must come down, though.
Do you think you could make a long arm, and haul it off the parent
tin-tack? Thanks. We make progress. We make progress."

"We shall jolly well make it out of the window," said Mike, spooning
up tea from a paper bag with a postcard, "if a sort of young
Hackenschmidt turns up and claims the study. What are you going to do
about it?"

"Don't let us worry about it. I have a presentiment that he will be an
insignificant-looking little weed. How are you getting on with the
evening meal?"

"Just ready. What would you give to be at Eton now? I'd give something
to be at Wrykyn."

"These school reports," said Psmith sympathetically, "are the very
dickens. Many a bright young lad has been soured by them. Hullo.
What's this, I wonder."

A heavy body had plunged against the door, evidently without a
suspicion that there would be any resist