me. But," said Psmith solemnly, fixing an 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 a certain scug in the next village to ours happened last year to collar a 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 sent me off here to get a Balliol too. Do you know Barlitt?"
"His pater's vicar of our village. It was because his son got a Balliol that I was sent here."
"Do you come from Crofton?"
"Yes."
"I've lived at Lower Benford all my life. We are practically long-lost brothers. Cheer a little, will you?"
Mike felt as Robinson Crusoe felt when he met Friday. Here was a fellow human being in this desert place. He could almost have embraced Psmith. The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. His dislike for his new school was not diminished, but now he felt that life there might at least be tolerable.
"Where were you before you came here?" asked Psmith. "You have heard my painful story. Now tell me yours."
"Wrykyn. My pater took me away because I got such a lot of bad reports."
"My reports from Eton were simply scurrilous. There's a libel action in every sentence. How do you like this place from what you've seen of it?"
"Rotten."
