Pedestrians who had the good fortune to be passing along the road between the housemaster’s house and Mr. Outwood’s at that moment saw what, if they had but known it, was a most unusual sight, the spectacle of Psmith running. Psmith’s usual mode of progression was a dignified walk. He believed in the contemplative style rather than the hustling. On this occasion, however, reckless of possible injuries to the crease of his trousers, he raced down the road, and turning in at Outwood’s gate, bounded upstairs like a highly trained professional athlete. On arriving at the study, his first act was to remove a boot from the top of the pile in the basket, place it in the small cupboard under the bookshelf, and lock the cupboard. Then he flung himself into a chair and panted. “Brain,” he said to himself approvingly, “is what one chiefly needs in matters of this kind. Without brain, where are we? In the soup, every time. The next development will be when Comrade Downing thinks it over, and is struck with the brilliant idea that it’s just possible that the boot he gave me to carry and the boot I did carry were not one boot but two boots. Meanwhile----” He dragged up another chair for his feet and picked up his novel. He had not been reading long when there was a footstep in the passage, and Mr. Downing appeared. The possibility, in fact the probability, of Psmith having substituted another boot for the one with the incriminating splash of paint on it had occurred to him almost immediately on leaving the headmaster’s garden. Psmith and Mike, he reflected, were friends. Psmith’s impulse would be to do all that lay in his power to shield Mike. Feeling aggrieved with himself that he had not thought of this before, he, too, hurried over to Outwood’s. Mr. Downing was brisk and peremptory. “I wish to look at these boots again,” he said. Psmith, with a sigh, laid down his novel, and rose to assist him. “Sit down, Smith,” said the housemaster. “I can manage without your help.” Psmith sat down again, carefully tucking up the knees of his trousers, and watched him with silent interest through his eyeglass. The scrutiny irritated Mr. Downing. “Put that thing away, Smith,” he said. “That thing, sir?” “Yes, that ridiculous glass. Put it away.” “Why, sir?” “Why! Because I tell you to do so.” “I guessed that that was the reason, sir,” sighed Psmith replacing the eyeglass in his waistcoat pocket. He rested his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands, and resumed his contemplative inspection of the boot-expert, who, after fidgeting for a few moments, lodged another complaint. “Don’t sit there staring at me, Smith.” “I was interested in what you were doing, sir.” “Never mind. Don’t stare at me in that idiotic way.” “May I read, sir?” asked Psmith, patiently. “Yes, read if you like.” “Thank you, sir.” Psmith took up his book again, and Mr. Downing, now thoroughly irritated, pursued his investigations in the boot-basket.