Billy was about to speak, but Psmith suddenly held up his hand warningly. From the room below came a sound of feet. For a moment the silence was tense. Then from Mr. Gooch's lips there escaped a screech. "This way! They're up--" The words were cut short as Billy banged his hand over the speaker's mouth. But the thing was done. "On top de roof," cried a voice. "Dey've beaten it for de roof." The chair rasped over the floor. Feet shuffled. And then, like a jack-in-the-box, there popped through the opening a head and shoulders. CHAPTER XXI THE BATTLE OF PLEASANT STREET The new arrival was a young man with a shock of red hair, an ingrowing Roman nose, and a mouth from which force or the passage of time had removed three front teeth. He held on to the edges of the trap with his hands, and stared in a glassy manner into Psmith's face, which was within a foot of his own. There was a momentary pause, broken by an oath from Mr. Gooch, who was still undergoing treatment in the background. "Aha!" said Psmith genially. "Historic picture. 'Doctor Cook discovers the North Pole.'" The red-headed young man blinked. The strong light of the open air was trying to his eyes. "Youse had better come down," he observed coldly. "We've got youse." "And," continued Psmith, unmoved, "is instantly handed a gum-drop by his faithful Esquimaux." As he spoke, he brought the stick down on the knuckles which disfigured the edges of the trap. The intruder uttered a howl and dropped out of sight. In the room below there were whisperings and mutterings, growing gradually louder till something resembling coherent conversation came to Psmith's ears, as he knelt by the trap making meditative billiard-shots with the stick at a small pebble. "Aw g'wan! Don't be a quitter!" "Who's a quitter?" "Youse is a quitter. Get on top de roof. He can't hoit youse." "De guy's gotten a big stick." Psmith nodded appreciatively. "I and Roosevelt," he murmured. A somewhat baffled silence on the part of the attacking force was followed by further conversation. "Gum! some guy's got to go up." Murmur of assent from the audience. A voice, in inspired tones: "Let Sam do it!" This suggestion made a hit. There was no doubt about that. It was a success from the start. Quite a little chorus of voices expressed sincere approval of the very happy solution to what had seemed an insoluble problem. Psmith, listening from above, failed to detect in the choir of glad voices one that might belong to Sam himself. Probably gratification had rendered the chosen one dumb. "Yes, let Sam do it!" cried the unseen chorus. The first speaker, unnecessarily, perhaps--for the motion had been carried almost unanimously--but possibly with the idea of convincing the one member of the party in whose bosom doubts might conceivably be harboured, went on to adduce reasons. "Sam bein' a coon," he argued, "ain't goin' to git hoit by no stick. Youse can't hoit a coon by soakin' him on de coco, can you, Sam?"