not a hobby, with honest amazement and a flood of advice and warning on
the subject.

"One of the Georges," said Psmith, "I forget which, once said that a
certain number of hours' sleep a day--I cannot recall for the moment how
many--made a man something, which for the time being has slipped my
memory. However, there you are. I've given you the main idea of the
thing; and a German doctor says that early rising causes insanity.
Still, if you're bent on it...." After which he had handed over the key.

Mike wished he could have taken Psmith into his confidence. Probably he
would have volunteered to come, too; Mike would have been glad of a
companion.

It did not take him long to reach Lower Borlock. The White Boar stood at
the far end of the village, by the cricket field. He rode past the
church--standing out black and mysterious against the light sky--and the
rows of silent cottages, until he came to the inn.

The place was shut, of course, and all the lights were out--it was
sometime past eleven.

The advantage an inn has over a private house, from the point of view of
the person who wants to get into it when it has been locked up, is that
a nocturnal visit is not so unexpected in the case of the former.
Preparations have been made to meet such an emergency. Where with a
private house you would probably have to wander around heaving rocks and
end by climbing up a waterspout, when you want to get into an inn you
simply ring the night bell, which, communicating with the boots' room,
has that hard-worked menial up and doing in no time.

After Mike had waited for a few minutes there was a rattling of chains
and a shooting of bolts and the door opened.

"Yes, sir?" said the boots, appearing in his shirt sleeves. "Why, 'ello!
Mr. Jackson, sir!"

Mike was well known to all dwellers in Lower Borlock, his scores being
the chief topic of conversation when the day's labors were over.

"I want to see Mr. Barley, Jack."

"He's bin' in bed this half hour back, Mr. Jackson."

"I must see him. Can you get him down?"

The boots looked doubtful. "Roust the guv'nor outer bed?" he said.

Mike quite admitted the gravity of the task. The landlord of the White
Boar was one of those men who need a beauty sleep.

"I wish you would--it's a thing that can't wait. I've got some money to
give to him."

"Oh, if it's _that_ ..." said the boots.

Five minutes later mine host appeared in person, looking more than
usually portly in a