'Rather,' said Mike, lacing his boots. 'You are, of course? Cambridge,
I hope. I'm going to King's.'

'Between ourselves,' confided Psmith, 'I'm dashed if I know what's
going to happen to me. I am the thingummy of what's-its-name.'

'You look it,' said Mike, brushing his hair.

'Don't stand there cracking the glass,' said Psmith. 'I tell you I am
practically a human three-shies-a-penny ball. My father is poising me
lightly in his hand, preparatory to flinging me at one of the milky
cocos of Life. Which one he'll aim at I don't know. The least thing
fills him with a whirl of new views as to my future. Last week we were
out shooting together, and he said that the life of the gentleman-farmer
was the most manly and independent on earth, and that he had a good
mind to start me on that. I pointed out that lack of early training
had rendered me unable to distinguish between a threshing-machine and
a mangel-wurzel, so he chucked that. He has now worked round to
Commerce. It seems that a blighter of the name of Bickersdyke is
coming here for the week-end next Saturday. As far as I can say
without searching the Newgate Calendar, the man Bickersdyke's career
seems to have been as follows. He was at school with my pater, went
into the City, raked in a certain amount of doubloons--probably
dishonestly--and is now a sort of Captain of Industry, manager of some
bank or other, and about to stand for Parliament. The result of these
excesses is that my pater's imagination has been fired, and at time of
going to press he wants me to imitate Comrade Bickersdyke. However,
there's plenty of time. That's one comfort. He's certain to change his
mind again. Ready? Then suppose we filter forth into the arena?'