tonic rather than a sedative. I anticipated that on my return the
cry would go round Cambridge, 'Psmith has been to New York. He is
full of oats. For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of
Paradise. He is hot stuff. Rah!' But what do we find?"

He paused, and lit a cigarette.

"What do we find?" he asked again.

"I don't know," said Mike. "What?"

"A very judicious query, Comrade Jackson. What, indeed? We find a
town very like London. A quiet, self-respecting town, admirable to
the apostle of social reform, but disappointing to one who, like
myself, arrives with a brush and a little bucket of red paint, all
eager for a treat. I have been here a week, and I have not seen a
single citizen clubbed by a policeman. No negroes dance cake-walks
in the street. No cow-boy has let off his revolver at random in
Broadway. The cables flash the message across the ocean, 'Psmith is
losing his illusions.'"

Mike had come to America with a team of the M.C.C. which was
touring the cricket-playing section of the United States. Psmith
had accompanied him in a private capacity. It was the end of their
first year at Cambridge, and Mike, with a century against Oxford to
his credit, had been one of the first to be invited to join the
tour. Psmith, who had played cricket in a rather desultory way at
the University, had not risen to these heights. He had merely taken
the opportunity of Mike's visit to the other side to accompany him.
Cambridge had proved pleasant to Psmith, but a trifle quiet. He