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" "But why Sedleigh, of all places?" "This is the most painful part of my narrative. It seems that a certain scug in the next village to ours happened last year to collar a Balliol----" "Not Barlitt!" exclaimed Mike. "That was the man. The son of the vicar. The vicar told the curate, who told our curate, who told our vicar, who told my father, who sent me off here to get a Balliol too. Do _you_ know Barlitt?" "His pater's vicar of our village. It was because his son got a Balliol that I was sent here." "Do you come from Crofton?" "Yes." "I've lived at Lower Benford all my life. We are practically long-lost brothers. Cheer a little, will you?" Mike felt as Robinson Crusoe felt when he met Friday. Here was a fellow human being in this desert place. He could almost have embraced Psmith. The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. His dislike for his new school was not diminished, but now he felt that life there might at least be tolerable. "Where were you before you came here?" asked Psmith. "You have heard my painful story. Now tell me yours." "Wrykyn. My pater took me away because I got such a lot of bad reports." "My reports from Eton were simply scurrilous. There's a libel action in every sentence. How do you like this place from what you've seen of it?" "Rotten." "I am with you, Comrade Jackson. You won't mind my calling you Comrade, will you? I've just become a Socialist. It's a great scheme. You ought to be one. You work for the equal distribution of property, and start by collaring all you can and sitting on it. We must stick together. We are companions in misfortune. Lost lambs. Sheep that have gone astray. Divided, we fall, together we may worry through. Have you seen Professor Radium yet? I should say Mr. Outwood. What do you think of him?" "He doesn't seem a bad sort of chap. Bit off his nut. Jawed about apses and things." "And thereby," said Psmith, "hangs a tale. I've been making inquiries of a stout sportsman in a sort of Salvation Army uniform, whom I met in the grounds--he's the school sergeant or something, quite a solid man--and I hear that Comrade Outwood's an archaeological cove. Goes about the country beating up old ruins and fossils and things. There's an Archaeological Society in the school, run by him. It goes out on half-holidays, prowling about, and is allowed to break bounds and generally steep itself to the eyebrows in reckless devilry. And,
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