Psmith rarely jumped. He entered the cab with something of the stateliness of an old Roman Emperor boarding his chariot, and settled himself comfortably in his seat. Mr Smith dived in like a rabbit.
A vendor of newspapers came to the cab thrusting an evening paper into the interior. Psmith bought it.
'Let's see how they're getting on,' he said, opening the paper. 'Where are we? Lunch scores. Lord's. Aha! Comrade Jackson is in form.'
'Jackson?' said Mr Smith, 'is that the same youngster you brought home last summer? The batsman? Is he playing today?'
'He was not out thirty at lunch-time. He would appear to be making something of a stand with his brother Joe, who has made sixty-one up to the moment of going to press. It's possible he may still be in when we get there. In which case we shall not be able to slide into the pavilion.'
'A grand bat, that boy. I said so last summer. Better than any of his brothers. He's in the bank with you, isn't he?'
'He was this morning. I doubt, however, whether he can be said to be still in that position.'
'Eh? what? How's that?'
'There was some slight friction between him and the management. They wished him to be glued to his stool; he preferred to play for the county. I think we may say that Comrade Jackson has secured the Order of the Boot.'
'What? Do you mean to say—?'