"Jackson," said Mike.

　　"Are you the Bully, the Pride of the School, or the Boy who is LedAstray and takes to Drink in Chapter Sixteen?""The last, for choice," said Mike, "but I've only just arrived, so Idon't know.""The boy--what will he become? Are you new here, too, then?""Yes! Why, are you new?""Do I look as if I belonged here? I'm the latest import. Sit downon yonder settee, and I will tell you the painful story of my life.

　　By the way, before I start, there's just one thing. If you everhave occasion to write to me, would you mind sticking a P at thebeginning of my name? P-s-m-i-t-h. See? There are too many Smiths,and I don't care for Smythe. My father's content to worry along inthe old-fashioned way, but I've decided to strike out a fresh line.

　　I shall found a new dynasty. The resolve came to me unexpectedly thismorning, as I was buying a simple penn'orth of butterscotch out ofthe automatic machine at Paddington. I jotted it down on the back ofan envelope. In conversation you may address me as Rupert (though Ihope you won't), or simply Smith, the P not being sounded. Cp. thename Zbysco, in which the Z is given a similar miss-in-baulk. See?"Mike said he saw. Psmith thanked him with a certain stately old-worldcourtesy.

　　"Let us start at the beginning," he resumed. "My infancy. When I wasbut a babe, my eldest sister was bribed with a shilling an hour by mynurse to keep an rye on me, and see that I did not raise Cain. At theend of the first day she struck for one-and six, and got it. We nowpass to my boyhood. At an early age, I was sent to Eton, everybodypredicting a bright career for me. But," said Psmith solemnly, fixingan owl-like gaze on Mike through the eye-glass, "it was not to be.""No?" said Mike.

　　"No. I was superannuated last term.""Bad luck.""For Eton, yes. But what Eton loses, Sedleigh gains.""But why Sedleigh, of all places?""This is the most painful part of my narrative. It seems that acertain scug in the next village to ours happened last year to collara Balliol----""Not Barlitt!" exclaimed Mike.

　　"That was the man. The son of the vicar. The vicar told the curate,who told our curate, who told our vicar, who told my father, who sentme off here to get a Balliol too. Do _you_ know Barlitt?""His pater's vicar of our village. It was because his son got aBalliol that I was sent here.""Do you come from Crofton?""Yes.""I've lived at Lower Benford all my life. We are practically long-lostbrothers. Cheer a little, will you?"Mike felt as Robinson Crusoe felt when he met Friday. Here was afellow human being in this desert place. He could almost have embracedPsmith. The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. Hisdislike for his new school was not diminished, but now he felt thatlife there might at least be tolerable.

　　"Where were you before you came here?" asked Psmith. "You have heardmy painful story. Now tell me yours.""Wrykyn. My pater took me away because I got such a lot of badreports.""My reports from Eton were simply scurrilous. There's a libel actionin every sentence. How do you like this place from what you've seen ofit?""Rotten.""I am with you, Comrade Jackson. You won't mind my calling youComrade, will you? I've just become a Socialist. It's a great scheme.

　　You ought to be one. You work for the equal distribution of property,and start by collaring all you can and sitting on it. We must sticktogether. We are companions in misfortune. Lost lambs. Sheep that havegone astray. Divided, we fall, together we may worry through. Have youseen Professor Radium yet? I should say Mr. Outwood. What do you thinkof him?""He doesn't seem a bad sor............