'Have you been scrapping?' asked Mike. 'What happened? Was there a
row?'

'There was,' said Psmith, 'in a measure what might be described as a
row. At least, when you find a perfect stranger attaching himself to
your collar and pulling, you begin to suspect that something of that
kind is on the bill.'

'Did they do that?'

Psmith nodded.

'A merchant in a moth-eaten bowler started warbling to a certain extent
with me. It was all very trying for a man of culture. He was a man who
had, I should say, discovered that alcohol was a food long before the
doctors found it out. A good chap, possibly, but a little boisterous in
his manner. Well, well.'

Psmith shook his head sadly.

'He got you one on the forehead,' said Mike, 'or somebody did. Tell us
what happened. I wish the dickens I'd come with you. I'd no notion
there would be a rag of any sort. What did happen?'

'Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith sorrowfully, 'how sad it is in this life
of ours to be consistently misunderstood. You know, of course, how
wrapped up I am in Comrade Bickersdyke's welfare. You know that all my
efforts are directed towards making a decent man of him; that, in
short, I am his truest friend. Does he show by so much as a word that
he appreciates my labours? Not he. I believe that man is beginning to