'I wish Comrade Downing could see us now,' said Psmith. 'He always set
us down as mere idlers. Triflers. Butterflies. It would be a wholesome
corrective for him to watch us perspiring like this in the cause of
Commerce.'

'You haven't told me yet what on earth you're doing here,' said Mike.
'I thought you were going to the 'Varsity. Why the dickens are you in a
bank? Your pater hasn't lost his money, has he?'

'No. There is still a tolerable supply of doubloons in the old oak
chest. Mine is a painful story.'

'It always is,' said Mike.

'You are very right, Comrade Jackson. I am the victim of Fate. Ah, so
you put the little chaps in there, do you?' he said, as Mike, reaching
the post-office, began to bundle the letters into the box. 'You seem to
have grasped your duties with admirable promptitude. It is the same
with me. I fancy we are both born men of Commerce. In a few years we
shall be pinching Comrade Bickersdyke's job. And talking of Comrade B.
brings me back to my painful story. But I shall never have time to tell
it to you during our walk back. Let us drift aside into this tea-shop.
We can order a buckwheat cake or a butter-nut, or something equally
succulent, and carefully refraining from consuming these dainties, I
will tell you all.'

'Right O!' said Mike.

'When last I saw you,' resumed Psmith, hanging Mike's basket on the
hat-stand and ordering two portions of porridge, 'you may remember that