Psmith in the City by P. G. Wodehouse
1. Mr Bickersdyke Walks behind the Bowler's Arm
2. Mike Hears Bad News
3. The New Era Begins
4. First Steps in a Business Career
5. The Other Man
6. Psmith Explains
7. Going into Winter Quarters
8. The Friendly Native
9. The Haunting of Mr Bickersdyke
10. Mr Bickersdyke Addresses His Constituents
12. In a Nutshell
13. Mike is Moved On
14. Mr Waller Appears in a New Light
15. Stirring Times on the Common
16. Further Developments
17. Sunday Supper
18. Psmith Makes a Discovery
19. The Illness of Edward
20. Concerning a Cheque
21. Psmith Makes Inquiries
22. And Take Steps
23. Mr Bickersdyke Makes a Concession
24. The Spirit of Unrest
25. At the Telephone
26. Breaking The News
27. At Lord's
28. Psmith Arranges his Future
29. And Mike's
30. The Last Sad Farewells
1. Mr Bickersdyke Walks behind the
Considering what a prominent figure Mr John Bickersdyke was to be in
Mike Jackson's life, it was only appropriate that he should make a
dramatic entry into it. This he did by walking behind the bowler's arm
when Mike had scored ninety-eight, causing him thereby to be clean
bowled by a long-hop.
It was the last day of the Ilsworth cricket week, and the house team
were struggling hard on a damaged wicket. During the first two matches
of the week all had been well. Warm sunshine, true wickets, tea in the
shade of the trees. But on the Thursday night, as the team champed
their dinner contentedly after defeating the Incogniti by two wickets,
a pattering of rain made itself heard upon the windows. By bedtime it
had settled to a steady downpour. On Friday morning, when the team of
the local regiment arrived in their brake, the sun was shining once
more in a watery, melancholy way, but play was not possible before
lunch. After lunch the bowlers were in their element. The regiment,
winning the toss, put together a hundred and thirty, due principally to
a last wicket stand between two enormous corporals, who swiped at
everything and had luck enough for two whole teams. The house team
followed with seventy-eight, of which Psmith, by his usual golf
methods, claimed thirty. Mike, who had gone in first as the star bat of
the side, had been run out with great promptitude off the first ball of
the innings, which his partner had hit in the immediate neighbourhood
of point. At close of play the regiment had made five without loss.
This, on the Saturday morning, helped by another shower of rain which
made the wicket easier for the moment, they had increased to a hundred
and forty-eight, leaving the house just two hundred to make on a pitch
which looked as if it were made of linseed.
It was during this week that Mike had first made the acquaintance of
Psmith's family. Mr Smith had moved from Shropshire, and taken Ilsworth
Hall in a neighbouring county. This he had done, as far as could be
ascertained, simply because he had a poor opinion of Shropshire
cricket. And just at the moment cricket happened to be the pivot of his
'My father,' Psmith had confided to Mike, meeting him at the station
in the family motor on the Monday, 'is a man of vast but volatile
brain. He has not that calm, dispassionate outlook on life which marks
your true philosopher, such as myself. I—'
'I say,' interrupted Mike, eyeing Psmith's movements with
apprehension, 'you aren't going to drive, are you?'
'Who else? As I was saying, I am like some contented spectator of a
Pageant. My pater wants to jump in and stage-manage. He is a man of
hobbies. He never has more than one at a time, and he never has that
long. But while he has it, it's all there. When I left the house this
morning he was all for cricket. But by the time we get to the ground he
may have chucked cricket and taken up the Territorial Army. Don't be
surprised if you find the wicket being dug up into trenches, when we
arrive, and the pro. moving in echelon towards the pavilion. No,' he
added, as the car turned into the drive, and they caught a glimpse of
white flannels and blazers in the distance, and heard the sound of bat
meeting ball, 'cricket seems still to be topping the bill. Come along,
and I'll show you your room. It's next to mine, so that, if brooding on
Life in the still hours of the night, I hit on any great truth, I shall
pop in and discuss it with you.'
While Mike was changing, Psmith sat on his bed, and continued to
'I suppose you're going to the 'Varsity?' he said.
'Rather,' said Mike, lacing his boots. 'You are, of course?
Cambridge, I hope. I'm going to King's.'
'Between ourselves,' confided Psmith, 'I'm dashed if I know what's
going to happen to me. I am the thingummy of what's-its-name.'
'You look it,' said Mike, brushing his hair.
'Don't stand there cracking the glass,' said Psmith. 'I tell you I
am practically a human three-shies-a-penny ball. My father is poising
me lightly in his hand, preparatory to flinging me at one of the milky
cocos of Life. Which one he'll aim at I don't know. The least thing
fills him with a whirl of new views as to my future. Last week we were
out shooting together, and he said that the life of the
gentleman-farmer was the most manly and independent on earth, and that
he had a good mind to start me on that. I pointed out that lack of
early training had rendered me unable to distinguish between a
threshing-machine and a mangel-wurzel, so he chucked that. He has now
worked round to Commerce. It seems that a blighter of the name of
Bickersdyke is coming here for the week-end next Saturday. As far as I
can say without searching the Newgate Calendar, the man Bickersdyke's
career seems to have been as follows. He was at school with my pater,
went into the City, raked in a certain amount of doubloons—probably
dishonestly—and is now a sort of Captain of Industry, manager of some
bank or other, and about to stand for Parliament. The result of these
excesses is that my pater's imagination has been fired, and at time of
going to press he wants me to imitate Comrade Bickersdyke. However,
there's plenty of time. That's one comfort. He's certain to change his
mind again. Ready? Then suppose we filter forth into the arena?'
Out on the field Mike was introduced to the man of hobbies. Mr
Smith, senior, was a long, earnest-looking man who might have been
Psmith in a grey wig but for his obvious energy. He was as wholly on
the move as Psmith was wholly statuesque. Where Psmith stood like some
dignified piece of sculpture, musing on deep questions with a glassy
eye, his father would be trying to be in four places at once. When
Psmith presented Mike to him, he shook hands warmly with him and
started a sentence, but broke off in the middle of both performances to
dash wildly in the direction of the pavilion in an endeavour to catch
an impossible catch some thirty yards away. The impetus so gained
carried him on towards Bagley, the Ilsworth Hall ground-man, with whom
a moment later he was carrying on an animated discussion as to whether
he had or had not seen a dandelion on the field that morning. Two
minutes afterwards he had skimmed away again. Mike, as he watched him,
began to appreciate Psmith's reasons for feeling some doubt as to what
would be his future walk in life.
At lunch that day Mike sat next to Mr Smith, and improved his
acquaintance with him; and by the end of the week they were on
excellent terms. Psmith's father had Psmith's gift of getting on well
On this Saturday, as Mike buckled on his pads, Mr Smith bounded up,
full of advice and encouragement.
'My boy,' he said, 'we rely on you. These others'—he indicated with
a disparaging wave of the hand the rest of the team, who were visible
through the window of the changing-room—'are all very well. Decent
club bats. Good for a few on a billiard-table. But you're our hope on a
wicket like this. I have studied cricket all my life'—till that summer
it is improbable that Mr Smith had ever handled a bat—'and I know a
first-class batsman when I see one. I've seen your brothers play. Pooh,
you're better than any of them. That century of yours against the Green
Jackets was a wonderful innings, wonderful. Now look here, my boy. I
want you to be careful. We've a lot of runs to make, so we mustn't take
any risks. Hit plenty of boundaries, of course, but be careful.
Careful. Dash it, there's a youngster trying to climb up the elm. He'll
break his neck. It's young Giles, my keeper's boy. Hi! Hi, there!'
He scudded out to avert the tragedy, leaving Mike to digest his
expert advice on the art of batting on bad wickets.
Possibly it was the excellence of this advice which induced Mike to
play what was, to date, the best innings of his life. There are moments
when the batsman feels an almost super-human fitness. This came to Mike
now. The sun had begun to shine strongly. It made the wicket more
difficult, but it added a cheerful touch to the scene. Mike felt calm
and masterful. The bowling had no terrors for him. He scored nine off
his first over and seven off his second, half-way through which he lost
his partner. He was to undergo a similar bereavement several times that
afternoon, and at frequent intervals. However simple the bowling might
seem to him, it had enough sting in it to worry the rest of the team
considerably. Batsmen came and went at the other end with such rapidity
that it seemed hardly worth while their troubling to come in at all.
Every now and then one would give promise of better things by lifting
the slow bowler into the pavilion or over the boundary, but it always
happened that a similar stroke, a few balls later, ended in an easy
catch. At five o'clock the Ilsworth score was eighty-one for seven
wickets, last man nought, Mike not out fifty-nine. As most of the house
team, including Mike, were dispersing to their homes or were due for
visits at other houses that night, stumps were to be drawn at six. It
was obvious that they could not hope to win. Number nine on the list,
who was Bagley, the ground-man, went in with instructions to play for a
draw, and minute advice from Mr Smith as to how he was to do it. Mike
had now begun to score rapidly, and it was not to be expected that he
could change his game; but Bagley, a dried-up little man of the type
which bowls for five hours on a hot August day without exhibiting any
symptoms of fatigue, put a much-bound bat stolidly in front of every
ball he received; and the Hall's prospects of saving the game grew
At a quarter to six the professional left, caught at very silly
point for eight. The score was a hundred and fifteen, of which Mike had
A lengthy young man with yellow hair, who had done some good fast
bowling for the Hall during the week, was the next man in. In previous
matches he had hit furiously at everything, and against the Green
Jackets had knocked up forty in twenty minutes while Mike was putting
the finishing touches to his century. Now, however, with his host's
warning ringing in his ears, he adopted the unspectacular, or Bagley,
style of play. His manner of dealing with the ball was that of one
playing croquet. He patted it gingerly back to the bowler when it was
straight, and left it icily alone when it was off the wicket. Mike,
still in the brilliant vein, clumped a half-volley past point to the
boundary, and with highly scientific late cuts and glides brought his
score to ninety-eight. With Mike's score at this, the total at a
hundred and thirty, and the hands of the clock at five minutes to six,
the yellow-haired croquet exponent fell, as Bagley had fallen, a victim
to silly point, the ball being the last of the over.
Mr Smith, who always went in last for his side, and who so far had
not received a single ball during the week, was down the pavilion steps
and half-way to the wicket before the retiring batsman had taken half a
'Last over,' said the wicket-keeper to Mike. 'Any idea how many
you've got? You must be near your century, I should think.'
'Ninety-eight,' said Mike. He always counted his runs.
'By Jove, as near as that? This is something like a finish.'
Mike left the first ball alone, and the second. They were too wide
of the off-stump to be hit at safely. Then he felt a thrill as the
third ball left the bowler's hand. It was a long-hop. He faced square
to pull it.
And at that moment Mr John Bickersdyke walked into his life across
He crossed the bowler's arm just before the ball pitched. Mike lost
sight of it for a fraction of a second, and hit wildly. The next moment
his leg stump was askew; and the Hall had lost the match.
'I'm sorry,' he said to Mr Smith. 'Some silly idiot walked across
the screen just as the ball was bowled.'
'What!' shouted Mr Smith. 'Who was the fool who walked behind the
bowler's arm?' he yelled appealingly to Space.
'Here he comes, whoever he is,' said Mike.
A short, stout man in a straw hat and a flannel suit was walking
towards them. As he came nearer Mike saw that he had a hard,
thin-lipped mouth, half-hidden by a rather ragged moustache, and that
behind a pair of gold spectacles were two pale and slightly protruding
eyes, which, like his mouth, looked hard.
'How are you, Smith,' he said.
'Hullo, Bickersdyke.' There was a slight internal struggle, and then
Mr Smith ceased to be the cricketer and became the host. He chatted
amiably to the new-comer.
'You lost the game, I suppose,' said Mr Bickersdyke.
The cricketer in Mr Smith came to the top again, blended now,
however, with the host. He was annoyed, but restrained in his
'I say, Bickersdyke, you know, my dear fellow,' he said
complainingly, 'you shouldn't have walked across the screen. You put
Jackson off, and made him get bowled.'
'That curious white object,' said Mike. 'It is not put up merely as
an ornament. There's a sort of rough idea of giving the batsman a
chance of seeing the ball, as well. It's a great help to him when
people come charging across it just as the bowler bowls.'
Mr Bickersdyke turned a slightly deeper shade of purple, and was
about to reply, when what sporting reporters call 'the veritable
Quite a large crowd had been watching the game, and they expressed
their approval of Mike's performance.
There is only one thing for a batsman to do on these occasions. Mike
ran into the pavilion, leaving Mr Bickersdyke standing.
2. Mike Hears Bad News
It seemed to Mike, when he got home, that there was a touch of gloom
in the air. His sisters were as glad to see him as ever. There was a
good deal of rejoicing going on among the female Jacksons because Joe
had scored his first double century in first-class cricket. Double
centuries are too common, nowadays, for the papers to take much notice
of them; but, still, it is not everybody who can make them, and the
occasion was one to be marked. Mike had read the news in the evening
paper in the train, and had sent his brother a wire from the station,
congratulating him. He had wondered whether he himself would ever
achieve the feat in first-class cricket. He did not see why he should
not. He looked forward through a long vista of years of county cricket.
He had a birth qualification for the county in which Mr Smith had
settled, and he had played for it once already at the beginning of the
holidays. His debut had not been sensational, but it had been
promising. The fact that two members of the team had made centuries,
and a third seventy odd, had rather eclipsed his own twenty-nine not
out; but it had been a faultless innings, and nearly all the papers had
said that here was yet another Jackson, evidently well up to the family
standard, who was bound to do big things in the future.
The touch of gloom was contributed by his brother Bob to a certain
extent, and by his father more noticeably. Bob looked slightly
thoughtful. Mr Jackson seemed thoroughly worried.
Mike approached Bob on the subject in the billiard-room after
dinner. Bob was practising cannons in rather a listless way.
'What's up, Bob?' asked Mike.
Bob laid down his cue.
'I'm hanged if I know,' said Bob. 'Something seems to be. Father's
worried about something.'
'He looked as if he'd got the hump rather at dinner.'
'I only got here this afternoon, about three hours before you did. I
had a bit of a talk with him before dinner. I can't make out what's up.
He seemed awfully keen on my finding something to do now I've come down
from Oxford. Wanted to know whether I couldn't get a tutoring job or a
mastership at some school next term. I said I'd have a shot. I don't
see what all the hurry's about, though. I was hoping he'd give me a bit
of travelling on the Continent somewhere before I started in.'
'Rough luck,' said Mike. 'I wonder why it is. Jolly good about Joe,
wasn't it? Let's have fifty up, shall we?'
Bob's remarks had given Mike no hint of impending disaster. It
seemed strange, of course, that his father, who had always been so
easy-going, should have developed a hustling Get On or Get Out spirit,
and be urging Bob to Do It Now; but it never occurred to him that there
could be any serious reason for it. After all, fellows had to start
working some time or other. Probably his father had merely pointed this
out to Bob, and Bob had made too much of it.
Half-way through the game Mr Jackson entered the room, and stood
watching in silence.
'Want a game, father?' asked Mike.
'No, thanks, Mike. What is it? A hundred up?'
'Oh, then you'll be finished in a moment. When you are, I wish you'd
just look into the study for a moment, Mike. I want to have a talk with
'Rum,' said Mike, as the door closed. 'I wonder what's up?'
For a wonder his conscience was free. It was not as if a bad
school-report might have arrived in his absence. His Sedleigh report
had come at the beginning of the holidays, and had been, on the whole,
fairly decent—nothing startling either way. Mr Downing, perhaps
through remorse at having harried Mike to such an extent during the
Sammy episode, had exercised a studied moderation in his remarks. He
had let Mike down far more easily than he really deserved. So it could
not be a report that was worrying Mr Jackson. And there was nothing
else on his conscience.
Bob made a break of sixteen, and ran out. Mike replaced his cue, and
walked to the study.
His father was sitting at the table. Except for the very important
fact that this time he felt that he could plead Not Guilty on every
possible charge, Mike was struck by the resemblance in the general
arrangement of the scene to that painful ten minutes at the end of the
previous holidays, when his father had announced his intention of
taking him away from Wrykyn and sending him to Sedleigh. The
resemblance was increased by the fact that, as Mike entered, Mr Jackson
was kicking at the waste-paper basket—a thing which with him was an
infallible sign of mental unrest.
'Sit down, Mike,' said Mr Jackson. 'How did you get on during the
'Topping. Only once out under double figures. And then I was run
out. Got a century against the Green Jackets, seventy-one against the
Incogs, and today I made ninety-eight on a beast of a wicket, and only
got out because some silly goat of a chap—'
He broke off. Mr Jackson did not seem to be attending. There was a
silence. Then Mr Jackson spoke with an obvious effort.
'Look here, Mike, we've always understood one another, haven't we?'
'Of course we have.'
'You know I wouldn't do anything to prevent you having a good time,
if I could help it. I took you away from Wrykyn, I know, but that was a
special case. It was necessary. But I understand perfectly how keen you
are to go to Cambridge, and I wouldn't stand in the way for a minute,
if I could help it.'
Mike looked at him blankly. This could only mean one thing. He was
not to go to the 'Varsity. But why? What had happened? When he had left
for the Smith's cricket week, his name had been down for King's, and
the whole thing settled. What could have happened since then?'
'But I can't help it,' continued Mr Jackson.
'Aren't I going up to Cambridge, father?' stammered Mike.
'I'm afraid not, Mike. I'd manage it if I possibly could. I'm just
as anxious to see you get your Blue as you are to get it. But it's
kinder to be quite frank. I can't afford to send you to Cambridge. I
won't go into details which you would not understand; but I've lost a
very large sum of money since I saw you last. So large that we shall
have to economize in every way. I shall let this house and take a much
smaller one. And you and Bob, I'm afraid, will have to start earning
your living. I know it's a terrible disappointment to you, old chap.'
'Oh, that's all right,' said Mike thickly. There seemed to be
something sticking in his throat, preventing him from speaking.
'If there was any possible way—'
'No, it's all right, father, really. I don't mind a bit. It's
awfully rough luck on you losing all that.'
There was another silence. The clock ticked away energetically on
the mantelpiece, as if glad to make itself heard at last. Outside, a
plaintive snuffle made itself heard. John, the bull-dog, Mike's
inseparable companion, who had followed him to the study, was getting
tired of waiting on the mat. Mike got up and opened the door. John
The movement broke the tension.
'Thanks, Mike,' said Mr Jackson, as Mike started to leave the room,
'you're a sportsman.'
3. The New Era Begins
Details of what were in store for him were given to Mike next
morning. During his absence at Ilsworth a vacancy had been got for him
in that flourishing institution, the New Asiatic Bank; and he was to
enter upon his duties, whatever they might be, on the Tuesday of the
following week. It was short notice, but banks have a habit of
swallowing their victims rather abruptly. Mike remembered the case of
Wyatt, who had had just about the same amount of time in which to get
used to the prospect of Commerce.
On the Monday morning a letter arrived from Psmith. Psmith was still
perturbed. 'Commerce,' he wrote, 'continues to boom. My pater referred
to Comrade Bickersdyke last night as a Merchant Prince. Comrade B. and
I do not get on well together. Purely for his own good, I drew him
aside yesterday and explained to him at great length the frightfulness
of walking across the bowling-screen. He seemed restive, but I was
firm. We parted rather with the Distant Stare than the Friendly Smile.
But I shall persevere. In many ways the casual observer would say that
he was hopeless. He is a poor performer at Bridge, as I was compelled
to hint to him on Saturday night. His eyes have no animated sparkle of
intelligence. And the cut of his clothes jars my sensitive soul to its
foundations. I don't wish to speak ill of a man behind his back, but I
must confide in you, as my Boyhood's Friend, that he wore a made-up tie
at dinner. But no more of a painful subject. I am working away at him
with a brave smile. Sometimes I think that I am succeeding. Then he
seems to slip back again. However,' concluded the letter, ending on an
optimistic note, 'I think that I shall make a man of him yet—some
Mike re-read this letter in the train that took him to London. By
this time Psmith would know that his was not the only case in which
Commerce was booming. Mike had written to him by return, telling him of
the disaster which had befallen the house of Jackson. Mike wished he
could have told him in person, for Psmith had a way of treating
unpleasant situations as if he were merely playing at them for his own
amusement. Psmith's attitude towards the slings and arrows of
outrageous Fortune was to regard them with a bland smile, as if they
were part of an entertainment got up for his express benefit.
Arriving at Paddington, Mike stood on the platform, waiting for his
box to emerge from the luggage-van, with mixed feelings of gloom and
excitement. The gloom was in the larger quantities, perhaps, but the
excitement was there, too. It was the first time in his life that he
had been entirely dependent on himself. He had crossed the Rubicon. The
occasion was too serious for him to feel the same helplessly furious
feeling with which he had embarked on life at Sedleigh. It was possible
to look on Sedleigh with quite a personal enmity. London was too big to
be angry with. It took no notice of him. It did not care whether he was
glad to be there or sorry, and there was no means of making it care.
That is the peculiarity of London. There is a sort of cold
unfriendliness about it. A city like New York makes the new arrival
feel at home in half an hour; but London is a specialist in what Psmith
in his letter had called the Distant Stare. You have to buy London's
Mike drove across the Park to Victoria, feeling very empty and
small. He had settled on Dulwich as the spot to get lodgings, partly
because, knowing nothing about London, he was under the impression that
rooms anywhere inside the four-mile radius were very expensive, but
principally because there was a school at Dulwich, and it would be a
comfort being near a school. He might get a game of fives there
sometimes, he thought, on a Saturday afternoon, and, in the summer,
Wandering at a venture up the asphalt passage which leads from
Dulwich station in the direction of the College, he came out into
Acacia Road. There is something about Acacia Road which inevitably
suggests furnished apartments. A child could tell at a glance that it
was bristling with bed-sitting rooms.
Mike knocked at the first door over which a card hung.
There is probably no more depressing experience in the world than
the process of engaging furnished apartments. Those who let furnished
apartments seem to take no joy in the act. Like Pooh-Bah, they do it,
but it revolts them.
In answer to Mike's knock, a female person opened the door. In
appearance she resembled a pantomime 'dame', inclining towards the
restrained melancholy of Mr Wilkie Bard rather than the joyous abandon
of Mr George Robey. Her voice she had modelled on the gramophone. Her
most recent occupation seemed to have been something with a good deal
of yellow soap in it. As a matter of fact—there are no secrets between
our readers and ourselves—she had been washing a shirt. A useful
occupation, and an honourable, but one that tends to produce a certain
homeliness in the appearance.
She wiped a pair of steaming hands on her apron, and regarded Mike
with an eye which would have been markedly expressionless in a boiled
'Was there anything?' she asked.
Mike felt that he was in for it now. He had not sufficient ease of
manner to back gracefully away and disappear, so he said that there was
something. In point of fact, he wanted a bed-sitting room.
'Orkup stays,' said the pantomime dame. Which Mike interpreted to
mean, would he walk upstairs?
The procession moved up a dark flight of stairs until it came to a
door. The pantomime dame opened this, and shuffled through. Mike stood
in the doorway, and looked in.
It was a repulsive room. One of those characterless rooms which are
only found in furnished apartments. To Mike, used to the comforts of
his bedroom at home and the cheerful simplicity of a school dormitory,
it seemed about the most dismal spot he had ever struck. A sort of
Sargasso Sea among bedrooms.
He looked round in silence. Then he said: 'Yes.' There did not seem
much else to say.
'It's a nice room,' said the pantomime dame. Which was a black lie.
It was not a nice room. It never had been a nice room. And it did not
seem at all probable that it ever would be a nice room. But it looked
cheap. That was the great thing. Nobody could have the assurance to
charge much for a room like that. A landlady with a conscience might
even have gone to the length of paying people some small sum by way of
compensation to them for sleeping in it.
'About what?' queried Mike. Cheapness was the great consideration.
He understood that his salary at the bank would be about four pounds
ten a month, to begin with, and his father was allowing him five pounds
a month. One does not do things en prince on a hundred and
fourteen pounds a year.
The pantomime dame became slightly more animated. Prefacing her
remarks by a repetition of her statement that it was a nice room, she
went on to say that she could 'do' it at seven and sixpence per week
'for him'—giving him to understand, presumably, that, if the Shah of
Persia or Mr Carnegie ever applied for a night's rest, they would sigh
in vain for such easy terms. And that included lights. Coals were to be
looked on as an extra. 'Sixpence a scuttle.' Attendance was thrown in.
Having stated these terms, she dribbled a piece of fluff under the
bed, after the manner of a professional Association footballer, and
relapsed into her former moody silence.
Mike said he thought that would be all right. The pantomime dame
exhibited no pleasure.
''Bout meals?' she said. 'You'll be wanting breakfast. Bacon, aigs,
an' that, I suppose?'
Mike said he supposed so.
'That'll be extra,' she said. 'And dinner? A chop, or a nice steak?'
Mike bowed before this original flight of fancy. A chop or a nice
steak seemed to be about what he might want.
'That'll be extra,' said the pantomime dame in her best Wilkie Bard
Mike said yes, he supposed so. After which, having put down seven
and sixpence, one week's rent in advance, he was presented with a
grubby receipt and an enormous latchkey, and the seance was at
an end. Mike wandered out of the house. A few steps took him to the
railings that bounded the College grounds. It was late August, and the
evenings had begun to close in. The cricket-field looked very cool and
spacious in the dim light, with the school buildings looming vague and
shadowy through the slight mist. The little gate by the railway bridge
was not locked. He went in, and walked slowly across the turf towards
the big clump of trees which marked the division between the cricket
and football fields. It was all very pleasant and soothing after the
pantomime dame and her stuffy bed-sitting room. He sat down on a bench
beside the second eleven telegraph-board, and looked across the ground
at the pavilion. For the first time that day he began to feel really
home-sick. Up till now the excitement of a strange venture had borne
him up; but the cricket-field and the pavilion reminded him so sharply
of Wrykyn. They brought home to him with a cutting distinctness, the
absolute finality of his break with the old order of things. Summers
would come and go, matches would be played on this ground with all the
glory of big scores and keen finishes; but he was done. 'He was a jolly
good bat at school. Top of the Wrykyn averages two years. But didn't do
anything after he left. Went into the city or something.' That was what
they would say of him, if they didn't quite forget him.
The clock on the tower over the senior block chimed quarter after
quarter, but Mike sat on, thinking. It was quite late when he got up,
and began to walk back to Acacia Road. He felt cold and stiff and very
4. First Steps in a Business Career
The City received Mike with the same aloofness with which the more
western portion of London had welcomed him on the previous day. Nobody
seemed to look at him. He was permitted to alight at St Paul's and make
his way up Queen Victoria Street without any demonstration. He followed
the human stream till he reached the Mansion House, and eventually
found himself at the massive building of the New Asiatic Bank, Limited.
The difficulty now was to know how to make an effective entrance.
There was the bank, and here was he. How had he better set about
breaking it to the authorities that he had positively arrived and was
ready to start earning his four pound ten per mensem? Inside,
the bank seemed to be in a state of some confusion. Men were moving
about in an apparently irresolute manner. Nobody seemed actually to be
working. As a matter of fact, the business of a bank does not start
very early in the morning. Mike had arrived before things had really
begun to move. As he stood near the doorway, one or two panting figures
rushed up the steps, and flung themselves at a large book which stood
on the counter near the door. Mike was to come to know this book well.
In it, if you were an employe of the New Asiatic Bank, you had
to inscribe your name every morning. It was removed at ten sharp to the
accountant's room, and if you reached the bank a certain number of
times in the year too late to sign, bang went your bonus.
After a while things began to settle down. The stir and confusion
gradually ceased. All down the length of the bank, figures could be
seen, seated on stools and writing hieroglyphics in large letters. A
benevolent-looking man, with spectacles and a straggling grey beard,
crossed the gangway close to where Mike was standing. Mike put the
thing to him, as man to man.
'Could you tell me,' he said, 'what I'm supposed to do? I've just
joined the bank.' The benevolent man stopped, and looked at him with a
pair of mild blue eyes. 'I think, perhaps, that your best plan would be
to see the manager,' he said. 'Yes, I should certainly do that. He will
tell you what work you have to do. If you will permit me, I will show
you the way.'
'It's awfully good of you,' said Mike. He felt very grateful. After
his experience of London, it was a pleasant change to find someone who
really seemed to care what happened to him. His heart warmed to the
'It feels strange to you, perhaps, at first, Mr—'
'Mr Jackson. My name is Waller. I have been in the City some time,
but I can still recall my first day. But one shakes down. One shakes
down quite quickly. Here is the manager's room. If you go in, he will
tell you what to do.'
'Thanks awfully,' said Mike.
'Not at all.' He ambled off on the quest which Mike had interrupted,
turning, as he went, to bestow a mild smile of encouragement on the new
arrival. There was something about Mr Waller which reminded Mike
pleasantly of the White Knight in 'Alice through the Looking-glass.'
Mike knocked at the managerial door, and went in.
Two men were sitting at the table. The one facing the door was
writing when Mike went in. He continued to write all the time he was in
the room. Conversation between other people in his presence had
apparently no interest for him, nor was it able to disturb him in any
The other man was talking into a telephone. Mike waited till he had
finished. Then he coughed. The man turned round. Mike had thought, as
he looked at his back and heard his voice, that something about his
appearance or his way of speaking was familiar. He was right. The man
in the chair was Mr Bickersdyke, the cross-screen pedestrian.
These reunions are very awkward. Mike was frankly unequal to the
situation. Psmith, in his place, would have opened the conversation,
and relaxed the tension with some remark on the weather or the state of
the crops. Mike merely stood wrapped in silence, as in a garment.
That the recognition was mutual was evident from Mr Bickersdyke's
look. But apart from this, he gave no sign of having already had the
pleasure of making Mike's acquaintance. He merely stared at him as if
he were a blot on the arrangement of the furniture, and said, 'Well?'
The most difficult parts to play in real life as well as on the
stage are those in which no 'business' is arranged for the performer.
It was all very well for Mr Bickersdyke. He had been 'discovered
sitting'. But Mike had had to enter, and he wished now that there was
something he could do instead of merely standing and speaking.
'I've come,' was the best speech he could think of. It was not a
good speech. It was too sinister. He felt that even as he said it. It
was the sort of thing Mephistopheles would have said to Faust by way of
opening conversation. And he was not sure, either, whether he ought not
to have added, 'Sir.'
Apparently such subtleties of address were not necessary, for Mr
Bickersdyke did not start up and shout, 'This language to me!' or
anything of that kind. He merely said, 'Oh! And who are you?'
'Jackson,' said Mike. It was irritating, this assumption on Mr
Bickersdyke's part that they had never met before.
'Jackson? Ah, yes. You have joined the staff?'
Mike rather liked this way of putting it. It lent a certain dignity
to the proceedings, making him feel like some important person for
whose services there had been strenuous competition. He seemed to see
the bank's directors being reassured by the chairman. ('I am happy to
say, gentlemen, that our profits for the past year are 3,000,006-2-2
1/2 pounds—(cheers)—and'—impressively—'that we have finally
succeeded in inducing Mr Mike Jackson—(sensation)—to—er—in fact, to
join the staff! (Frantic cheers, in which the chairman joined.')
'Yes,' he said.
Mr Bickersdyke pressed a bell on the table beside him, and picking
up a pen, began to write. Of Mike he took no further notice, leaving
that toy of Fate standing stranded in the middle of the room.
After a few moments one of the men in fancy dress, whom Mike had
seen hanging about the gangway, and whom he afterwards found to be
messengers, appeared. Mr Bickersdyke looked up.
'Ask Mr Bannister to step this way,' he said.
The messenger disappeared, and presently the door opened again to
admit a shock-headed youth with paper cuff-protectors round his wrists.
'This is Mr Jackson, a new member of the staff. He will take your
place in the postage department. You will go into the cash department,
under Mr Waller. Kindly show him what he has to do.'
Mike followed Mr Bannister out. On the other side of the door the
shock-headed one became communicative.
'Whew!' he said, mopping his brow. 'That's the sort of thing which
gives me the pip. When William came and said old Bick wanted to see me,
I said to him, “William, my boy, my number is up. This is the sack.” I
made certain that Rossiter had run me in for something. He's been
waiting for a chance to do it for weeks, only I've been as good as gold
and haven't given it him. I pity you going into the postage. There's
one thing, though. If you can stick it for about a month, you'll get
through all right. Men are always leaving for the East, and then you
get shunted on into another department, and the next new man goes into
the postage. That's the best of this place. It's not like one of those
banks where you stay in London all your life. You only have three years
here, and then you get your orders, and go to one of the branches in
the East, where you're the dickens of a big pot straight away, with a
big screw and a dozen native Johnnies under you. Bit of all right,
that. I shan't get my orders for another two and a half years and more,
worse luck. Still, it's something to look forward to.'
'Who's Rossiter?' asked Mike.
'The head of the postage department. Fussy little brute. Won't leave
you alone. Always trying to catch you on the hop. There's one thing,
though. The work in the postage is pretty simple. You can't make many
mistakes, if you're careful. It's mostly entering letters and stamping
They turned in at the door in the counter, and arrived at a desk
which ran parallel to the gangway. There was a high rack running along
it, on which were several ledgers. Tall, green-shaded electric lamps
gave it rather a cosy look.
As they reached the desk, a little man with short, black whiskers
buzzed out from behind a glass screen, where there was another desk.
'Where have you been, Bannister, where have you been? You must not
leave your work in this way. There are several letters waiting to be
entered. Where have you been?'
'Mr Bickersdyke sent for me,' said Bannister, with the calm triumph
of one who trumps an ace.
'Oh! Ah! Oh! Yes, very well. I see. But get to work, get to work.
Who is this?'
'This is a new man. He's taking my place. I've been moved on to the
'Oh! Ah! Is your name Smith?' asked Mr Rossiter, turning to Mike.
Mike corrected the rash guess, and gave his name. It struck him as a
curious coincidence that he should be asked if his name were Smith, of
all others. Not that it is an uncommon name.
'Mr Bickersdyke told me to expect a Mr Smith. Well, well, perhaps
there are two new men. Mr Bickersdyke knows we are short-handed in this
department. But, come along, Bannister, come along. Show Jackson what
he has to do. We must get on. There is no time to waste.'
He buzzed back to his lair. Bannister grinned at Mike. He was a
cheerful youth. His normal expression was a grin.
'That's a sample of Rossiter,' he said. 'You'd think from the fuss
he's made that the business of the place was at a standstill till we
got to work. Perfect rot! There's never anything to do here till after
lunch, except checking the stamps and petty cash, and I've done that
ages ago. There are three letters. You may as well enter them. It all
looks like work. But you'll find the best way is to wait till you get a
couple of dozen or so, and then work them off in a batch. But if you
see Rossiter about, then start stamping something or writing something,
or he'll run you in for neglecting your job. He's a nut. I'm jolly glad
I'm under old Waller now. He's the pick of the bunch. The other heads
of departments are all nuts, and Bickersdyke's the nuttiest of the lot.
Now, look here. This is all you've got to do. I'll just show you, and
then you can manage for yourself. I shall have to be shunting off to my
own work in a minute.'
5. The Other Man
As Bannister had said, the work in the postage department was not
intricate. There was nothing much to do except enter and stamp letters,
and, at intervals, take them down to the post office at the end of the
street. The nature of the work gave Mike plenty of time for reflection.
His thoughts became gloomy again. All this was very far removed from
the life to which he had looked forward. There are some people who take
naturally to a life of commerce. Mike was not of these. To him the
restraint of the business was irksome. He had been used to an open-air
life, and a life, in its way, of excitement. He gathered that he would
not be free till five o'clock, and that on the following day he would
come at ten and go at five, and the same every day, except Saturdays
and Sundays, all the year round, with a ten days' holiday. The monotony
of the prospect appalled him. He was not old enough to know what a
narcotic is Habit, and that one can become attached to and interested
in the most unpromising jobs. He worked away dismally at his letters
till he had finished them. Then there was nothing to do except sit and
wait for more.
He looked through the letters he had stamped, and re-read the
addresses. Some of them were directed to people living in the country,
one to a house which he knew quite well, near to his own home in
Shropshire. It made him home-sick, conjuring up visions of shady
gardens and country sounds and smells, and the silver Severn gleaming
in the distance through the trees. About now, if he were not in this
dismal place, he would be lying in the shade in the garden with a book,
or wandering down to the river to boat or bathe. That envelope
addressed to the man in Shropshire gave him the worst moment he had
experienced that day.
The time crept slowly on to one o'clock. At two minutes past Mike
awoke from a day-dream to find Mr Waller standing by his side. The
cashier had his hat on.
'I wonder,' said Mr Waller, 'if you would care to come out to lunch.
I generally go about this time, and Mr Rossiter, I know, does not go
out till two. I thought perhaps that, being unused to the City, you
might have some difficulty in finding your way about.'
'It's awfully good of you,' said Mike. 'I should like to.'
The other led the way through the streets and down obscure alleys
till they came to a chop-house. Here one could have the doubtful
pleasure of seeing one's chop in its various stages of evolution. Mr
Waller ordered lunch with the care of one to whom lunch is no slight
matter. Few workers in the City do regard lunch as a trivial affair. It
is the keynote of their day. It is an oasis in a desert of ink and
ledgers. Conversation in city office deals, in the morning, with what
one is going to have for lunch, and in the afternoon with what one has
had for lunch.
At intervals during the meal Mr Waller talked. Mike was content to
listen. There was something soothing about the grey-bearded one.
'What sort of a man is Bickersdyke?' asked Mike.
'A very able man. A very able man indeed. I'm afraid he's not
popular in the office. A little inclined, perhaps, to be hard on
mistakes. I can remember the time when he was quite different. He and I
were fellow clerks in Morton and Blatherwick's. He got on better than I
did. A great fellow for getting on. They say he is to be the Unionist
candidate for Kenningford when the time comes. A great worker, but
perhaps not quite the sort of man to be generally popular in an
'He's a blighter,' was Mike's verdict. Mr Waller made no comment.
Mike was to learn later that the manager and the cashier, despite the
fact that they had been together in less prosperous days—or possibly
because of it—were not on very good terms. Mr Bickersdyke was a man of
strong prejudices, and he disliked the cashier, whom he looked down
upon as one who had climbed to a lower rung of the ladder than he
himself had reached.
As the hands of the chop-house clock reached a quarter to two, Mr
Waller rose, and led the way back to the office, where they parted for
their respective desks. Gratitude for any good turn done to him was a
leading characteristic of Mike's nature, and he felt genuinely grateful
to the cashier for troubling to seek him out and be friendly to him.
His three-quarters-of-an-hour absence had led to the accumulation of
a small pile of letters on his desk. He sat down and began to work them
off. The addresses continued to exercise a fascination for him. He was
miles away from the office, speculating on what sort of a man J. B.
Garside, Esq, was, and whether he had a good time at his house in
Worcestershire, when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.
He looked up.
Standing by his side, immaculately dressed as ever, with his
eye-glass fixed and a gentle smile on his face, was Psmith.
'Commerce,' said Psmith, as he drew off his lavender gloves, 'has
claimed me for her own. Comrade of old, I, too, have joined this
As he spoke, there was a whirring noise in the immediate
neighbourhood, and Mr Rossiter buzzed out from his den with the
esprit and animation of a clock-work toy.
'Who's here?' said Psmith with interest, removing his eye-glass,
polishing it, and replacing it in his eye.
'Mr Jackson,' exclaimed Mr Rossiter. 'I really must ask you to be
good enough to come in from your lunch at the proper time. It was fully
seven minutes to two when you returned, and—'
'That little more,' sighed Psmith, 'and how much is it!'
'Who are you?' snapped Mr Rossiter, turning on him.
'I shall be delighted, Comrade—'
'Rossiter,' said Mike, aside.
'Comrade Rossiter. I shall be delighted to furnish you with
particulars of my family history. As follows. Soon after the Norman
Conquest, a certain Sieur de Psmith grew tired of work—a family
failing, alas!—and settled down in this country to live peacefully for
the remainder of his life on what he could extract from the local
peasantry. He may be described as the founder of the family which
ultimately culminated in Me. Passing on—'
Mr Rossiter refused to pass on.
'What are you doing here? What have you come for?'
'Work,' said Psmith, with simple dignity. 'I am now a member of the
staff of this bank. Its interests are my interests. Psmith, the
individual, ceases to exist, and there springs into being Psmith, the
cog in the wheel of the New Asiatic Bank; Psmith, the link in the
bank's chain; Psmith, the Worker. I shall not spare myself,' he
proceeded earnestly. 'I shall toil with all the accumulated energy of
one who, up till now, has only known what work is like from hearsay.
Whose is that form sitting on the steps of the bank in the morning,
waiting eagerly for the place to open? It is the form of Psmith, the
Worker. Whose is that haggard, drawn face which bends over a ledger
long after the other toilers have sped blithely westwards to dine at
Lyons' Popular Cafe? It is the face of Psmith, the Worker.'
'I—' began Mr Rossiter.
'I tell you,' continued Psmith, waving aside the interruption and
tapping the head of the department rhythmically in the region of the
second waistcoat-button with a long finger, 'I tell you, Comrade
Rossiter, that you have got hold of a good man. You and I together, not
forgetting Comrade Jackson, the pet of the Smart Set, will toil early
and late till we boost up this Postage Department into a shining model
of what a Postage Department should be. What that is, at present, I do
not exactly know. However. Excursion trains will be run from distant
shires to see this Postage Department. American visitors to London will
do it before going on to the Tower. And now,' he broke off, with a
crisp, businesslike intonation, 'I must ask you to excuse me. Much as I
have enjoyed this little chat, I fear it must now cease. The time has
come to work. Our trade rivals are getting ahead of us. The whisper
goes round, “Rossiter and Psmith are talking, not working,” and other
firms prepare to pinch our business. Let me Work.'
Two minutes later, Mr Rossiter was sitting at his desk with a dazed
expression, while Psmith, perched gracefully on a stool, entered
figures in a ledger.
6. Psmith Explains
For the space of about twenty-five minutes Psmith sat in silence,
concentrated on his ledger, the picture of the model bank-clerk. Then
he flung down his pen, slid from his stool with a satisfied sigh, and
dusted his waistcoat. 'A commercial crisis,' he said, 'has passed. The
job of work which Comrade Rossiter indicated for me has been completed
with masterly skill. The period of anxiety is over. The bank ceases to
totter. Are you busy, Comrade Jackson, or shall we chat awhile?'
Mike was not busy. He had worked off the last batch of letters, and
there was nothing to do but to wait for the next, or—happy thought—to
take the present batch down to the post, and so get out into the
sunshine and fresh air for a short time. 'I rather think I'll nip down
to the post-office,' said he, 'You couldn't come too, I suppose?'
'On the contrary,' said Psmith, 'I could, and will. A stroll will
just restore those tissues which the gruelling work of the last
half-hour has wasted away. It is a fearful strain, this commercial
toil. Let us trickle towards the post office. I will leave my hat and
gloves as a guarantee of good faith. The cry will go round, “Psmith has
gone! Some rival institution has kidnapped him!” Then they will see my
hat,'—he built up a foundation of ledgers, planted a long ruler in the
middle, and hung his hat on it—'my gloves,'—he stuck two pens into
the desk and hung a lavender glove on each—'and they will sink back
swooning with relief. The awful suspense will be over. They will say,
“No, he has not gone permanently. Psmith will return. When the fields
are white with daisies he'll return.” And now, Comrade Jackson, lead me
to this picturesque little post-office of yours of which I have heard
Mike picked up the long basket into which he had thrown the letters
after entering the addresses in his ledger, and they moved off down the
aisle. No movement came from Mr Rossiter's lair. Its energetic occupant
was hard at work. They could just see part of his hunched-up back.
'I wish Comrade Downing could see us now,' said Psmith. 'He always
set us down as mere idlers. Triflers. Butterflies. It would be a
wholesome corrective for him to watch us perspiring like this in the
cause of Commerce.'
'You haven't told me yet what on earth you're doing here,' said
Mike. 'I thought you were going to the 'Varsity. Why the dickens are
you in a bank? Your pater hasn't lost his money, has he?'
'No. There is still a tolerable supply of doubloons in the old oak
chest. Mine is a painful story.'
'It always is,' said Mike.
'You are very right, Comrade Jackson. I am the victim of Fate. Ah,
so you put the little chaps in there, do you?' he said, as Mike,
reaching the post-office, began to bundle the letters into the box.
'You seem to have grasped your duties with admirable promptitude. It is
the same with me. I fancy we are both born men of Commerce. In a few
years we shall be pinching Comrade Bickersdyke's job. And talking of
Comrade B. brings me back to my painful story. But I shall never have
time to tell it to you during our walk back. Let us drift aside into
this tea-shop. We can order a buckwheat cake or a butter-nut, or
something equally succulent, and carefully refraining from consuming
these dainties, I will tell you all.'
'Right O!' said Mike.
'When last I saw you,' resumed Psmith, hanging Mike's basket on the
hat-stand and ordering two portions of porridge, 'you may remember that
a serious crisis in my affairs had arrived. My father inflamed with the
idea of Commerce had invited Comrade Bickersdyke—'
'When did you know he was a manager here?' asked Mike.
'At an early date. I have my spies everywhere. However, my pater
invited Comrade Bickersdyke to our house for the weekend. Things turned
out rather unfortunately. Comrade B. resented my purely altruistic
efforts to improve him mentally and morally. Indeed, on one occasion he
went so far as to call me an impudent young cub, and to add that he
wished he had me under him in his bank, where, he asserted, he would
knock some of the nonsense out of me. All very painful. I tell you,
Comrade Jackson, for the moment it reduced my delicately vibrating
ganglions to a mere frazzle. Recovering myself, I made a few blithe
remarks, and we then parted. I cannot say that we parted friends, but
at any rate I bore him no ill-will. I was still determined to make him
a credit to me. My feelings towards him were those of some kindly
father to his prodigal son. But he, if I may say so, was fairly on the
hop. And when my pater, after dinner the same night, played into his
hands by mentioning that he thought I ought to plunge into a career of
commerce, Comrade B. was, I gather, all over him. Offered to make a
vacancy for me in the bank, and to take me on at once. My pater,
feeling that this was the real hustle which he admired so much, had me
in, stated his case, and said, in effect, “How do we go?” I intimated
that Comrade Bickersdyke was my greatest chum on earth. So the thing
was fixed up and here I am. But you are not getting on with your
porridge, Comrade Jackson. Perhaps you don't care for porridge? Would
you like a finnan haddock, instead? Or a piece of shortbread? You have
only to say the word.'
'It seems to me,' said Mike gloomily, 'that we are in for a pretty
rotten time of it in this bally bank. If Bickersdyke's got his knife
into us, he can make it jolly warm for us. He's got his knife into me
all right about that walking-across-the-screen business.'
'True,' said Psmith, 'to a certain extent. It is an undoubted fact
that Comrade Bickersdyke will have a jolly good try at making life a
nuisance to us; but, on the other hand, I propose, so far as in me
lies, to make things moderately unrestful for him, here and there.'
'But you can't,' objected Mike. 'What I mean to say is, it isn't
like a school. If you wanted to score off a master at school, you could
always rag and so on. But here you can't. How can you rag a man who's
sitting all day in a room of his own while you're sweating away at a
desk at the other end of the building?'
'You put the case with admirable clearness, Comrade Jackson,' said
Psmith approvingly. 'At the hard-headed, common-sense business you
sneak the biscuit every time with ridiculous case. But you do not know
all. I do not propose to do a thing in the bank except work. I shall be
a model as far as work goes. I shall be flawless. I shall bound to do
Comrade Rossiter's bidding like a highly trained performing dog. It is
outside the bank, when I have staggered away dazed with toil, that I
shall resume my attention to the education of Comrade Bickersdyke.'
'But, dash it all, how can you? You won't see him. He'll go off
home, or to his club, or—'
Psmith tapped him earnestly on the chest.
'There, Comrade Jackson,' he said, 'you have hit the bull's-eye,
rung the bell, and gathered in the cigar or cocoanut according to
choice. He will go off to his club. And I shall do precisely the
'How do you mean?'
'It is this way. My father, as you may have noticed during your stay
at our stately home of England, is a man of a warm, impulsive
character. He does not always do things as other people would do them.
He has his own methods. Thus, he has sent me into the City to do the
hard-working, bank-clerk act, but at the same time he is allowing me
just as large an allowance as he would have given me if I had gone to
the 'Varsity. Moreover, while I was still at Eton he put my name up for
his clubs, the Senior Conservative among others. My pater belongs to
four clubs altogether, and in course of time, when my name comes up for
election, I shall do the same. Meanwhile, I belong to one, the Senior
Conservative. It is a bigger club than the others, and your name comes
up for election sooner. About the middle of last month a great yell of
joy made the West End of London shake like a jelly. The three thousand
members of the Senior Conservative had just learned that I had been
Psmith paused, and ate some porridge.
'I wonder why they call this porridge,' he observed with mild
interest. 'It would be far more manly and straightforward of them to
give it its real name. To resume. I have gleaned, from casual chit-chat
with my father, that Comrade Bickersdyke also infests the Senior
Conservative. You might think that that would make me, seeing how
particular I am about whom I mix with, avoid the club. Error. I shall
go there every day. If Comrade Bickersdyke wishes to emend any little
traits in my character of which he may disapprove, he shall never say
that I did not give him the opportunity. I shall mix freely with
Comrade Bickersdyke at the Senior Conservative Club. I shall be his
constant companion. I shall, in short, haunt the man. By these
strenuous means I shall, as it were, get a bit of my own back. And
now,' said Psmith, rising, 'it might be as well, perhaps, to return to
the bank and resume our commercial duties. I don't know how long you
are supposed to be allowed for your little trips to and from the
post-office, but, seeing that the distance is about thirty yards, I
should say at a venture not more than half an hour. Which is exactly
the space of time which has flitted by since we started out on this
important expedition. Your devotion to porridge, Comrade Jackson, has
led to our spending about twenty-five minutes in this hostelry.'
'Great Scott,' said Mike, 'there'll be a row.'
'Some slight temporary breeze, perhaps,' said Psmith. 'Annoying to
men of culture and refinement, but not lasting. My only fear is lest we
may have worried Comrade Rossiter at all. I regard Comrade Rossiter as
an elder brother, and would not cause him a moment's heart-burning for
worlds. However, we shall soon know,' he added, as they passed into the
bank and walked up the aisle, 'for there is Comrade Rossiter waiting to
receive us in person.'
The little head of the Postage Department was moving restlessly
about in the neighbourhood of Psmith's and Mike's desk.
'Am I mistaken,' said Psmith to Mike, 'or is there the merest
suspicion of a worried look on our chief's face? It seems to me that
there is the slightest soupcon of shadow about that broad, calm brow.'
7. Going into Winter Quarters
Mr Rossiter had discovered Psmith's and Mike's absence about five
minutes after they had left the building. Ever since then, he had been
popping out of his lair at intervals of three minutes, to see whether
they had returned. Constant disappointment in this respect had rendered
him decidedly jumpy. When Psmith and Mike reached the desk, he was a
kind of human soda-water bottle. He fizzed over with questions,
reproofs, and warnings.
'What does it mean? What does it mean?' he cried. 'Where have you
been? Where have you been?'
'Poetry,' said Psmith approvingly.
'You have been absent from your places for over half an hour. Why?
Why? Why? Where have you been? Where have you been? I cannot have this.
It is preposterous. Where have you been? Suppose Mr Bickersdyke had
happened to come round here. I should not have known what to say to
'Never an easy man to chat with, Comrade Bickersdyke,' agreed
'You must thoroughly understand that you are expected to remain in
your places during business hours.'
'Of course,' said Psmith, 'that makes it a little hard for Comrade
Jackson to post letters, does it not?'
'Have you been posting letters?'
'We have,' said Psmith. 'You have wronged us. Seeing our absent
places you jumped rashly to the conclusion that we were merely gadding
about in pursuit of pleasure. Error. All the while we were furthering
the bank's best interests by posting letters.'
'You had no business to leave your place. Jackson is on the posting
'You are very right,' said Psmith, 'and it shall not occur again. It
was only because it was the first day, Comrade Jackson is not used to
the stir and bustle of the City. His nerve failed him. He shrank from
going to the post-office alone. So I volunteered to accompany him.
And,' concluded Psmith, impressively, 'we won safely through. Every
letter has been posted.'
'That need not have taken you half an hour.'
'True. And the actual work did not. It was carried through swiftly
and surely. But the nerve-strain had left us shaken. Before resuming
our more ordinary duties we had to refresh. A brief breathing-space, a
little coffee and porridge, and here we are, fit for work once more.'
'If it occurs again, I shall report the matter to Mr Bickersdyke.'
'And rightly so,' said Psmith, earnestly. 'Quite rightly so.
Discipline, discipline. That is the cry. There must be no shirking of
painful duties. Sentiment must play no part in business. Rossiter, the
man, may sympathise, but Rossiter, the Departmental head, must be
Mr Rossiter pondered over this for a moment, then went off on a
'What is the meaning of this foolery?' he asked, pointing to
Psmith's gloves and hat. 'Suppose Mr Bickersdyke had come round and
seen them, what should I have said?'
'You would have given him a message of cheer. You would have said,
“All is well. Psmith has not left us. He will come back. And Comrade
Bickersdyke, relieved, would have—“'
'You do not seem very busy, Mr Smith.'
Both Psmith and Mr Rossiter were startled.
Mr Rossiter jumped as if somebody had run a gimlet into him, and
even Psmith started slightly. They had not heard Mr Bickersdyke
approaching. Mike, who had been stolidly entering addresses in his
ledger during the latter part of the conversation, was also taken by
Psmith was the first to recover. Mr Rossiter was still too confused
for speech, but Psmith took the situation in hand.
'Apparently no,' he said, swiftly removing his hat from the ruler.
'In reality, yes. Mr Rossiter and I were just scheming out a line of
work for me as you came up. If you had arrived a moment later, you
would have found me toiling.'
'H'm. I hope I should. We do not encourage idling in this bank.'
'Assuredly not,' said Psmith warmly. 'Most assuredly not. I would
not have it otherwise. I am a worker. A bee, not a drone. A
Lusitania, not a limpet. Perhaps I have not yet that grip on my
duties which I shall soon acquire; but it is coming. It is coming. I
'H'm. I have only your word for it.' He turned to Mr Rossiter, who
had now recovered himself, and was as nearly calm as it was in his
nature to be. 'Do you find Mr Smith's work satisfactory, Mr Rossiter?'
Psmith waited resignedly for an outburst of complaint respecting the
small matter that had been under discussion between the head of the
department and himself; but to his surprise it did not come.
'Oh—ah—quite, quite, Mr Bickersdyke. I think he will very soon
pick things up.'
Mr Bickersdyke turned away. He was a conscientious bank manager, and
one can only suppose that Mr Rossiter's tribute to the earnestness of
one of his employes was gratifying to him. But for that, one
would have said that he was disappointed.
'Oh, Mr Bickersdyke,' said Psmith.
The manager stopped.
'Father sent his kind regards to you,' said Psmith benevolently.
Mr Bickersdyke walked off without comment.
'An uncommonly cheery, companionable feller,' murmured Psmith, as he
turned to his work.
The first day anywhere, if one spends it in a sedentary fashion,
always seemed unending; and Mike felt as if he had been sitting at his
desk for weeks when the hour for departure came. A bank's day ends
gradually, reluctantly, as it were. At about five there is a sort of
stir, not unlike the stir in a theatre when the curtain is on the point
of falling. Ledgers are closed with a bang. Men stand about and talk
for a moment or two before going to the basement for their hats and
coats. Then, at irregular intervals, forms pass down the central aisle
and out through the swing doors. There is an air of relaxation over the
place, though some departments are still working as hard as ever under
a blaze of electric light. Somebody begins to sing, and an instant
chorus of protests and maledictions rises from all sides. Gradually,
however, the electric lights go out. The procession down the centre
aisle becomes more regular; and eventually the place is left to
darkness and the night watchman.
The postage department was one of the last to be freed from duty.
This was due to the inconsiderateness of the other departments, which
omitted to disgorge their letters till the last moment. Mike as he grew
familiar with the work, and began to understand it, used to prowl round
the other departments during the afternoon and wrest letters from them,
usually receiving with them much abuse for being a nuisance and not
leaving honest workers alone. Today, however, he had to sit on till
nearly six, waiting for the final batch of correspondence.
Psmith, who had waited patiently with him, though his own work was
finished, accompanied him down to the post office and back again to the
bank to return the letter basket; and they left the office together.
'By the way,' said Psmith, 'what with the strenuous labours of the
bank and the disturbing interviews with the powers that be, I have
omitted to ask you where you are digging. Wherever it is, of course you
must clear out. It is imperative, in this crisis, that we should be
together. I have acquired a quite snug little flat in Clement's Inn.
There is a spare bedroom. It shall be yours.'
'My dear chap,' said Mike, 'it's all rot. I can't sponge on you.'
'You pain me, Comrade Jackson. I was not suggesting such a thing. We
are business men, hard-headed young bankers. I make you a business
proposition. I offer you the post of confidential secretary and adviser
to me in exchange for a comfortable home. The duties will be light. You
will be required to refuse invitations to dinner from crowned heads,
and to listen attentively to my views on Life. Apart from this, there
is little to do. So that's settled.'
'It isn't,' said Mike. 'I—'
'You will enter upon your duties tonight. Where are you suspended at
'Dulwich. But, look here—'
'A little more, and you'll get the sack. I tell you the thing is
settled. Now, let us hail yon taximeter cab, and desire the stern-faced
aristocrat on the box to drive us to Dulwich. We will then collect a
few of your things in a bag, have the rest off by train, come back in
the taxi, and go and bite a chop at the Carlton. This is a momentous
day in our careers, Comrade Jackson. We must buoy ourselves up.'
Mike made no further objections. The thought of that bed-sitting
room in Acacia Road and the pantomime dame rose up and killed them.
After all, Psmith was not like any ordinary person. There would be no
question of charity. Psmith had invited him to the flat in exactly the
same spirit as he had invited him to his house for the cricket week.
'You know,' said Psmith, after a silence, as they flitted through
the streets in the taximeter, 'one lives and learns. Were you so
wrapped up in your work this afternoon that you did not hear my very
entertaining little chat with Comrade Bickersdyke, or did it happen to
come under your notice? It did? Then I wonder if you were struck by the
singular conduct of Comrade Rossiter?'
'I thought it rather decent of him not to give you away to that
'Admirably put. It was precisely that that struck me. He had his
opening, all ready made for him, but he refrained from depositing me in
the soup. I tell you, Comrade Jackson, my rugged old heart was touched.
I said to myself, “There must be good in Comrade Rossiter, after all. I
must cultivate him.” I shall make it my business to be kind to our
Departmental head. He deserves the utmost consideration. His action
shone like a good deed in a wicked world. Which it was, of course. From
today onwards I take Comrade Rossiter under my wing. We seem to be
getting into a tolerably benighted quarter. Are we anywhere near?
“Through Darkest Dulwich in a Taximeter.”'
The cab arrived at Dulwich station, and Mike stood up to direct the
driver. They whirred down Acacia Road. Mike stopped the cab and got
out. A brief and somewhat embarrassing interview with the pantomime
dame, during which Mike was separated from a week's rent in lieu of
notice, and he was in the cab again, bound for Clement's Inn.
His feelings that night differed considerably from the frame of mind
in which he had gone to bed the night before. It was partly a very
excellent dinner and partly the fact that Psmith's flat, though at
present in some disorder, was obviously going to be extremely
comfortable, that worked the change. But principally it was due to his
having found an ally. The gnawing loneliness had gone. He did not look
forward to a career of Commerce with any greater pleasure than before;
but there was no doubt that with Psmith, it would be easier to get
through the time after office hours. If all went well in the bank he
might find that he had not drawn such a bad ticket after all.
8. The Friendly Native
'The first principle of warfare,' said Psmith at breakfast next
morning, doling out bacon and eggs with the air of a medieval monarch
distributing largesse, 'is to collect a gang, to rope in allies, to
secure the cooperation of some friendly native. You may remember that
at Sedleigh it was partly the sympathetic cooperation of that record
blitherer, Comrade Jellicoe, which enabled us to nip the pro-Spiller
movement in the bud. It is the same in the present crisis. What Comrade
Jellicoe was to us at Sedleigh, Comrade Rossiter must be in the City.
We must make an ally of that man. Once I know that he and I are as
brothers, and that he will look with a lenient and benevolent eye on
any little shortcomings in my work, I shall be able to devote my
attention whole-heartedly to the moral reformation of Comrade
Bickersdyke, that man of blood. I look on Comrade Bickersdyke as a
bargee of the most pronounced type; and anything I can do towards
making him a decent member of Society shall be done freely and
ungrudgingly. A trifle more tea, Comrade Jackson?'
'No, thanks,' said Mike. 'I've done. By Jove, Smith, this flat of
yours is all right.'
'Not bad,' assented Psmith, 'not bad. Free from squalor to a great
extent. I have a number of little objects of vertu coming down
shortly from the old homestead. Pictures, and so on. It will be by no
means un-snug when they are up. Meanwhile, I can rough it. We are old
campaigners, we Psmiths. Give us a roof, a few comfortable chairs, a
sofa or two, half a dozen cushions, and decent meals, and we do not
repine. Reverting once more to Comrade Rossiter—'
'Yes, what about him?' said Mike. 'You'll have a pretty tough job
turning him into a friendly native, I should think. How do you mean to
Psmith regarded him with a benevolent eye.
'There is but one way,' he said. 'Do you remember the case of
Comrade Outwood, at Sedleigh? How did we corral him, and become to him
practically as long-lost sons?'
'We got round him by joining the Archaeological Society.'
'Precisely,' said Psmith. 'Every man has his hobby. The thing is to
find it out. In the case of comrade Rossiter, I should say that it
would be either postage stamps, dried seaweed, or Hall Caine. I shall
endeavour to find out today. A few casual questions, and the thing is
done. Shall we be putting in an appearance at the busy hive now? If we
are to continue in the running for the bonus stakes, it would be well
to start soon.'
Mike's first duty at the bank that morning was to check the stamps
and petty cash. While he was engaged on this task, he heard Psmith
conversing affably with Mr Rossiter.
'Good morning,' said Psmith.
'Morning,' replied his chief, doing sleight-of-hand tricks with a
bundle of letters which lay on his desk. 'Get on with your work,
Psmith. We have a lot before us.'
'Undoubtedly. I am all impatience. I should say that in an
institution like this, dealing as it does with distant portions of the
globe, a philatelist would have excellent opportunities of increasing
his collection. With me, stamp-collecting has always been a positive
'I have no time for nonsense of that sort myself,' said Mr Rossiter.
'I should advise you, if you mean to get on, to devote more time to
your work and less to stamps.'
'I will start at once. Dried seaweed, again—'
'Get on with your work, Smith.'
Psmith retired to his desk.
'This,' he said to Mike, 'is undoubtedly something in the nature of
a set-back. I have drawn blank. The papers bring out posters, “Psmith
Baffled.” I must try again. Meanwhile, to work. Work, the hobby of the
philosopher and the poor man's friend.'
The morning dragged slowly on without incident. At twelve o'clock
Mike had to go out and buy stamps, which he subsequently punched in the
punching-machine in the basement, a not very exhilarating job in which
he was assisted by one of the bank messengers, who discoursed learnedly
on roses during the seance. Roses were his hobby. Mike began to
see that Psmith had reason in his assumption that the way to every
man's heart was through his hobby. Mike made a firm friend of William,
the messenger, by displaying an interest and a certain knowledge of
roses. At the same time the conversation had the bad effect of leading
to an acute relapse in the matter of homesickness. The rose-garden at
home had been one of Mike's favourite haunts on a summer afternoon. The
contrast between it and the basement of the new Asiatic Bank, the
atmosphere of which was far from being roselike, was too much for his
feelings. He emerged from the depths, with his punched stamps, filled
with bitterness against Fate.
He found Psmith still baffled.
'Hall Caine,' said Psmith regretfully, 'has also proved a frost. I
wandered round to Comrade Rossiter's desk just now with a rather brainy
excursus on “The Eternal City", and was received with the Impatient
Frown rather than the Glad Eye. He was in the middle of adding up a
rather tricky column of figures, and my remarks caused him to drop a
stitch. So far from winning the man over, I have gone back. There now
exists between Comrade Rossiter and myself a certain coldness. Further
investigations will be postponed till after lunch.'
The postage department received visitors during the morning. Members
of other departments came with letters, among them Bannister. Mr
Rossiter was away in the manager's room at the time.
'How are you getting on?' said Bannister to Mike.
'Oh, all right,' said Mike.
'Had any trouble with Rossiter yet?'
'No, not much.'
'He hasn't run you in to Bickersdyke?'
'Pardon my interrupting a conversation between old college chums,'
said Psmith courteously, 'but I happened to overhear, as I toiled at my
desk, the name of Comrade Rossiter.'
Bannister looked somewhat startled. Mike introduced them.
'This is Smith,' he said. 'Chap I was at school with. This is
Bannister, Smith, who used to be on here till I came.'
'In this department?' asked Psmith.
'Then, Comrade Bannister, you are the very man I have been looking
for. Your knowledge will be invaluable to us. I have no doubt that,
during your stay in this excellently managed department, you had many
opportunities of observing Comrade Rossiter?'
'I should jolly well think I had,' said Bannister with a laugh. 'He
saw to that. He was always popping out and cursing me about something.'
'Comrade Rossiter's manners are a little restive,' agreed Psmith.
'What used you to talk to him about?'
'What used I to talk to him about?'
'Exactly. In those interviews to which you have alluded, how did you
amuse, entertain Comrade Rossiter?'
'I didn't. He used to do all the talking there was.'
Psmith straightened his tie, and clicked his tongue, disappointed.
'This is unfortunate,' he said, smoothing his hair. 'You see,
Comrade Bannister, it is this way. In the course of my professional
duties, I find myself continually coming into contact with Comrade
'I bet you do,' said Bannister.
'On these occasions I am frequently at a loss for entertaining
conversation. He has no difficulty, as apparently happened in your
case, in keeping up his end of the dialogue. The subject of my
shortcomings provides him with ample material for speech. I, on the
other hand, am dumb. I have nothing to say.'
'I should think that was a bit of a change for you, wasn't it?'
'Perhaps, so,' said Psmith, 'perhaps so. On the other hand, however
restful it may be to myself, it does not enable me to secure Comrade
Rossiter's interest and win his esteem.'
'What Smith wants to know,' said Mike, 'is whether Rossiter has any
hobby of any kind. He thinks, if he has, he might work it to keep in
Psmith, who had been listening with an air of pleased interest, much
as a father would listen to his child prattling for the benefit of a
visitor, confirmed this statement.
'Comrade Jackson,' he said, 'has put the matter with his usual
admirable clearness. That is the thing in a nutshell. Has Comrade
Rossiter any hobby that you know of? Spillikins, brass-rubbing, the
Near Eastern Question, or anything like that? I have tried him with
postage-stamps (which you'd think, as head of a postage department, he
ought to be interested in), and dried seaweed, Hall Caine, but I have
the honour to report total failure. The man seems to have no pleasures.
What does he do with himself when the day's toil is ended? That giant
brain must occupy itself somehow.'
'I don't know,' said Bannister, 'unless it's football. I saw him
once watching Chelsea. I was rather surprised.'
'Football,' said Psmith thoughtfully, 'football. By no means a scaly
idea. I rather fancy, Comrade Bannister, that you have whanged the nail
on the head. Is he strong on any particular team? I mean, have you ever
heard him, in the intervals of business worries, stamping on his desk
and yelling, “Buck up Cottagers!” or “Lay 'em out, Pensioners!” or
anything like that? One moment.' Psmith held up his hand. 'I will get
my Sherlock Holmes system to work. What was the other team in the
modern gladiatorial contest at which you saw Comrade Rossiter?'
'And Comrade Rossiter, I should say, was a Manchester man.'
'I believe he is.'
'Then I am prepared to bet a small sum that he is nuts on Manchester
United. My dear Holmes, how—! Elementary, my dear fellow, quite
elementary. But here comes the lad in person.'
Mr Rossiter turned in from the central aisle through the
counter-door, and, observing the conversational group at the
postage-desk, came bounding up. Bannister moved off.
'Really, Smith,' said Mr Rossiter, 'you always seem to be talking. I
have overlooked the matter once, as I did not wish to get you into
trouble so soon after joining; but, really, it cannot go on. I must
take notice of it.'
Psmith held up his hand.
'The fault was mine,' he said, with manly frankness. 'Entirely mine.
Bannister came in a purely professional spirit to deposit a letter with
Comrade Jackson. I engaged him in conversation on the subject of the
Football League, and I was just trying to correct his view that
Newcastle United were the best team playing, when you arrived.'
'It is perfectly absurd,' said Mr Rossiter, 'that you should waste
the bank's time in this way. The bank pays you to work, not to talk
about professional football.'
'Just so, just so,' murmured Psmith.
'There is too much talking in this department.'
'I fear you are right.'
'It is nonsense.'
'My own view,' said Psmith, 'was that Manchester United were by far
the finest team before the public.'
'Get on with your work, Smith.'
Mr Rossiter stumped off to his desk, where he sat as one in thought.
'Smith,' he said at the end of five minutes.
Psmith slid from his stool, and made his way deferentially towards
'Bannister's a fool,' snapped Mr Rossiter.
'So I thought,' said Psmith.
'A perfect fool. He always was.'
Psmith shook his head sorrowfully, as who should say, 'Exit
'There is no team playing today to touch Manchester United.'
'Precisely what I said to Comrade Bannister.'
'Of course. You know something about it.'
'The study of League football,' said Psmith, 'has been my relaxation
'But we have no time to discuss it now.'
'Assuredly not, sir. Work before everything.'
'Some other time, when—'
'—We are less busy. Precisely.'
Psmith moved back to his seat.
'I fear,' he said to Mike, as he resumed work, 'that as far as
Comrade Rossiter's friendship and esteem are concerned, I have to a
certain extent landed Comrade Bannister in the bouillon; but it was in
a good cause. I fancy we have won through. Half an hour's thoughtful
perusal of the “Footballers' Who's Who", just to find out some
elementary facts about Manchester United, and I rather think the
friendly Native is corralled. And now once more to work. Work, the
hobby of the hustler and the deadbeat's dread.'
9. The Haunting of Mr Bickersdyke
Anything in the nature of a rash and hasty move was wholly foreign
to Psmith's tactics. He had the patience which is the chief quality of
the successful general. He was content to secure his base before making
any offensive movement. It was a fortnight before he turned his
attention to the education of Mr Bickersdyke. During that fortnight he
conversed attractively, in the intervals of work, on the subject of
League football in general and Manchester United in particular. The
subject is not hard to master if one sets oneself earnestly to it; and
Psmith spared no pains. The football editions of the evening papers are
not reticent about those who play the game: and Psmith drank in every
detail with the thoroughness of the conscientious student. By the end
of the fortnight he knew what was the favourite breakfast-food of J.
Turnbull; what Sandy Turnbull wore next his skin; and who, in the
opinion of Meredith, was England's leading politician. These facts,
imparted to and discussed with Mr Rossiter, made the progress of the
entente cordiale rapid. It was on the eighth day that Mr Rossiter
consented to lunch with the Old Etonian. On the tenth he played the
host. By the end of the fortnight the flapping of the white wings of
Peace over the Postage Department was setting up a positive draught.
Mike, who had been introduced by Psmith as a distant relative of Moger,
the goalkeeper, was included in the great peace.
'So that now,' said Psmith, reflectively polishing his eye-glass, 'I
think that we may consider ourselves free to attend to Comrade
Bickersdyke. Our bright little Mancunian friend would no more run us in
now than if we were the brothers Turnbull. We are as inside forwards to
The club to which Psmith and Mr Bickersdyke belonged was celebrated
for the steadfastness of its political views, the excellence of its
cuisine, and the curiously Gorgonzolaesque marble of its main
staircase. It takes all sorts to make a world. It took about four
thousand of all sorts to make the Senior Conservative Club. To be
absolutely accurate, there were three thousand seven hundred and
To Mr Bickersdyke for the next week it seemed as if there was only
There was nothing crude or overdone about Psmith's methods. The
ordinary man, having conceived the idea of haunting a fellow clubman,
might have seized the first opportunity of engaging him in
conversation. Not so Psmith. The first time he met Mr Bickersdyke in
the club was on the stairs after dinner one night. The great man,
having received practical proof of the excellence of cuisine referred
to above, was coming down the main staircase at peace with all men,
when he was aware of a tall young man in the 'faultless evening dress'
of which the female novelist is so fond, who was regarding him with a
fixed stare through an eye-glass. The tall young man, having caught his
eye, smiled faintly, nodded in a friendly but patronizing manner, and
passed on up the staircase to the library. Mr Bickersdyke sped on in
search of a waiter.
As Psmith sat in the library with a novel, the waiter entered, and
'Beg pardon, sir,' he said. 'Are you a member of this club?'
Psmith fumbled in his pocket and produced his eye-glass, through
which he examined the waiter, button by button.
'I am Psmith,' he said simply.
'A member, sir?'
'The member,' said Psmith. 'Surely you participated in the
general rejoicings which ensued when it was announced that I had been
elected? But perhaps you were too busy working to pay any attention. If
so, I respect you. I also am a worker. A toiler, not a flatfish. A
sizzler, not a squab. Yes, I am a member. Will you tell Mr Bickersdyke
that I am sorry, but I have been elected, and have paid my entrance fee
'Thank you, sir.'
The waiter went downstairs and found Mr Bickersdyke in the lower
'The gentleman says he is, sir.'
'H'm,' said the bank-manager. 'Coffee and Benedictine, and a cigar.'
On the following day Mr Bickersdyke met Psmith in the club three
times, and on the day after that seven. Each time the latter's smile
was friendly, but patronizing. Mr Bickersdyke began to grow restless.
On the fourth day Psmith made his first remark. The manager was
reading the evening paper in a corner, when Psmith sinking gracefully
into a chair beside him, caused him to look up.
'The rain keeps off,' said Psmith.
Mr Bickersdyke looked as if he wished his employee would imitate the
rain, but he made no reply.
Psmith called a waiter.
'Would you mind bringing me a small cup of coffee?' he said. 'And
for you,' he added to Mr Bickersdyke.
'Nothing,' growled the manager.
'And nothing for Mr Bickersdyke.'
The waiter retired. Mr Bickersdyke became absorbed in his paper.
'I see from my morning paper,' said Psmith, affably, 'that you are
to address a meeting at the Kenningford Town Hall next week. I shall
come and hear you. Our politics differ in some respects, I fear—I
incline to the Socialist view—but nevertheless I shall listen to your
remarks with great interest, great interest.'
The paper rustled, but no reply came from behind it.
'I heard from father this morning,' resumed Psmith.
Mr Bickersdyke lowered his paper and glared at him.
'I don't wish to hear about your father,' he snapped.
An expression of surprise and pain came over Psmith's face.
'What!' he cried. 'You don't mean to say that there is any coolness
between my father and you? I am more grieved than I can say. Knowing,
as I do, what a genuine respect my father has for your great talents, I
can only think that there must have been some misunderstanding. Perhaps
if you would allow me to act as a mediator—'
Mr Bickersdyke put down his paper and walked out of the room.
Psmith found him a quarter of an hour later in the card-room. He sat
down beside his table, and began to observe the play with silent
interest. Mr Bickersdyke, never a great performer at the best of times,
was so unsettled by the scrutiny that in the deciding game of the
rubber he revoked, thereby presenting his opponents with the rubber by
a very handsome majority of points. Psmith clicked his tongue
Dignified reticence is not a leading characteristic of the
bridge-player's manner at the Senior Conservative Club on occasions
like this. Mr Bickersdyke's partner did not bear his calamity with
manly resignation. He gave tongue on the instant. 'What on earth's',
and 'Why on earth's' flowed from his mouth like molten lava. Mr
Bickersdyke sat and fermented in silence. Psmith clicked his tongue
Mr Bickersdyke lost that control over himself which every member of
a club should possess. He turned on Psmith with a snort of frenzy.
'How can I keep my attention fixed on the game when you sit staring
at me like a—like a—'
'I am sorry,' said Psmith gravely, 'if my stare falls short in any
way of your ideal of what a stare should be; but I appeal to these
gentlemen. Could I have watched the game more quietly?'
'Of course not,' said the bereaved partner warmly. 'Nobody could
have any earthly objection to your behaviour. It was absolute
carelessness. I should have thought that one might have expected one's
partner at a club like this to exercise elementary—'
But Mr Bickersdyke had gone. He had melted silently away like the
Psmith took his place at the table.
'A somewhat nervous excitable man, Mr Bickersdyke, I should say,' he
'A somewhat dashed, blanked idiot,' emended the bank-manager's late
partner. 'Thank goodness he lost as much as I did. That's some light
Psmith arrived at the flat to find Mike still out. Mike had repaired
to the Gaiety earlier in the evening to refresh his mind after the
labours of the day. When he returned, Psmith was sitting in an armchair
with his feet on the mantelpiece, musing placidly on Life.
'Well?' said Mike.
'Well? And how was the Gaiety? Good show?'
'Jolly good. What about Bickersdyke?'
Psmith looked sad.
'I cannot make Comrade Bickersdyke out,' he said. 'You would think
that a man would be glad to see the son of a personal friend. On the
contrary, I may be wronging Comrade B., but I should almost be inclined
to say that my presence in the Senior Conservative Club tonight
irritated him. There was no bonhomie in his manner. He seemed to
me to be giving a spirited imitation of a man about to foam at the
mouth. I did my best to entertain him. I chatted. His only reply was to
leave the room. I followed him to the card-room, and watched his very
remarkable and brainy tactics at bridge, and he accused me of causing
him to revoke. A very curious personality, that of Comrade Bickersdyke.
But let us dismiss him from our minds. Rumours have reached me,' said
Psmith, 'that a very decent little supper may be obtained at a quaint,
old-world eating-house called the Savoy. Will you accompany me thither
on a tissue-restoring expedition? It would be rash not to probe these
rumours to their foundation, and ascertain their exact truth.'
10. Mr Bickersdyke Addresses His
It was noted by the observant at the bank next morning that Mr
Bickersdyke had something on his mind. William, the messenger, knew it,
when he found his respectful salute ignored. Little Briggs, the
accountant, knew it when his obsequious but cheerful 'Good morning' was
acknowledged only by a 'Morn'' which was almost an oath. Mr Bickersdyke
passed up the aisle and into his room like an east wind. He sat down at
his table and pressed the bell. Harold, William's brother and
co-messenger, entered with the air of one ready to duck if any missile
should be thrown at him. The reports of the manager's frame of mind had
been circulated in the office, and Harold felt somewhat apprehensive.
It was on an occasion very similar to this that George Barstead,
formerly in the employ of the New Asiatic Bank in the capacity of
messenger, had been rash enough to laugh at what he had taken for a
joke of Mr Bickersdyke's, and had been instantly presented with the
sack for gross impertinence.
'Ask Mr Smith—' began the manager. Then he paused. 'No, never
mind,' he added.
Harold remained in the doorway, puzzled.
'Don't stand there gaping at me, man,' cried Mr Bickersdyke, 'Go
Harold retired and informed his brother, William, that in his,
Harold's, opinion, Mr Bickersdyke was off his chump.
'Off his onion,' said William, soaring a trifle higher in poetic
'Barmy,' was the terse verdict of Samuel Jakes, the third messenger.
'Always said so.' And with that the New Asiatic Bank staff of
messengers dismissed Mr Bickersdyke and proceeded to concentrate
themselves on their duties, which consisted principally of hanging
about and discussing the prophecies of that modern seer, Captain Coe.
What had made Mr Bickersdyke change his mind so abruptly was the
sudden realization of the fact that he had no case against Psmith. In
his capacity of manager of the bank he could not take official notice
of Psmith's behaviour outside office hours, especially as Psmith had
done nothing but stare at him. It would be impossible to make anybody
understand the true inwardness of Psmith's stare. Theoretically, Mr
Bickersdyke had the power to dismiss any subordinate of his whom he did
not consider satisfactory, but it was a power that had to be exercised
with discretion. The manager was accountable for his actions to the
Board of Directors. If he dismissed Psmith, Psmith would certainly
bring an action against the bank for wrongful dismissal, and on the
evidence he would infallibly win it. Mr Bickersdyke did not welcome the
prospect of having to explain to the Directors that he had let the
shareholders of the bank in for a fine of whatever a discriminating
jury cared to decide upon, simply because he had been stared at while
playing bridge. His only hope was to catch Psmith doing his work badly.
He touched the bell again, and sent for Mr Rossiter.
The messenger found the head of the Postage Department in
conversation with Psmith. Manchester United had been beaten by one goal
to nil on the previous afternoon, and Psmith was informing Mr Rossiter
that the referee was a robber, who had evidently been financially
interested in the result of the game. The way he himself looked at it,
said Psmith, was that the thing had been a moral victory for the
United. Mr Rossiter said yes, he thought so too. And it was at this
moment that Mr Bickersdyke sent for him to ask whether Psmith's work
The head of the Postage Department gave his opinion without
hesitation. Psmith's work was about the hottest proposition he had ever
struck. Psmith's work—well, it stood alone. You couldn't compare it
with anything. There are no degrees in perfection. Psmith's work was
perfect, and there was an end to it.
He put it differently, but that was the gist of what he said.
Mr Bickersdyke observed he was glad to hear it, and smashed a nib by
stabbing the desk with it.
It was on the evening following this that the bank-manager was due
to address a meeting at the Kenningford Town Hall.
He was looking forward to the event with mixed feelings. He had
stood for Parliament once before, several years back, in the North. He
had been defeated by a couple of thousand votes, and he hoped that the
episode had been forgotten. Not merely because his defeat had been
heavy. There was another reason. On that occasion he had stood as a
Liberal. He was standing for Kenningford as a Unionist. Of course, a
man is at perfect liberty to change his views, if he wishes to do so,
but the process is apt to give his opponents a chance of catching him
(to use the inspired language of the music-halls) on the bend. Mr
Bickersdyke was rather afraid that the light-hearted electors of
Kenningford might avail themselves of this chance.
Kenningford, S.E., is undoubtedly by way of being a tough sort of
place. Its inhabitants incline to a robust type of humour, which finds
a verbal vent in catch phrases and expends itself physically in
smashing shop-windows and kicking policemen. He feared that the meeting
at the Town Hall might possibly be a trifle rowdy.
All political meetings are very much alike. Somebody gets up and
introduces the speaker of the evening, and then the speaker of the
evening says at great length what he thinks of the scandalous manner in
which the Government is behaving or the iniquitous goings-on of the
Opposition. From time to time confederates in the audience rise and ask
carefully rehearsed questions, and are answered fully and
satisfactorily by the orator. When a genuine heckler interrupts, the
orator either ignores him, or says haughtily that he can find him
arguments but cannot find him brains. Or, occasionally, when the
question is an easy one, he answers it. A quietly conducted political
meeting is one of England's most delightful indoor games. When the
meeting is rowdy, the audience has more fun, but the speaker a good
Mr Bickersdyke's introducer was an elderly Scotch peer, an excellent
man for the purpose in every respect, except that he possessed a very
The audience welcomed that accent uproariously. The electors of
Kenningford who really had any definite opinions on politics were
fairly equally divided. There were about as many earnest Liberals as
there were earnest Unionists. But besides these there was a strong
contingent who did not care which side won. These looked on elections
as Heaven-sent opportunities for making a great deal of noise. They
attended meetings in order to extract amusement from them; and they
voted, if they voted at all, quite irresponsibly. A funny story at the
expense of one candidate told on the morning of the polling, was quite
likely to send these brave fellows off in dozens filling in their
papers for the victim's opponent.
There was a solid block of these gay spirits at the back of the
hall. They received the Scotch peer with huge delight. He reminded them
of Harry Lauder and they said so. They addressed him affectionately as
'Arry', throughout his speech, which was rather long. They implored him
to be a pal and sing 'The Saftest of the Family'. Or, failing that, 'I
love a lassie'. Finding they could not induce him to do this, they did
it themselves. They sang it several times. When the peer, having
finished his remarks on the subject of Mr Bickersdyke, at length sat
down, they cheered for seven minutes, and demanded an encore.
The meeting was in excellent spirits when Mr Bickersdyke rose to
The effort of doing justice to the last speaker had left the free
and independent electors at the back of the hall slightly limp. The
bank-manager's opening remarks were received without any demonstration.
Mr Bickersdyke spoke well. He had a penetrating, if harsh, voice,
and he said what he had to say forcibly. Little by little the audience
came under his spell. When, at the end of a well-turned sentence, he
paused and took a sip of water, there was a round of applause, in which
many of the admirers of Mr Harry Lauder joined.
He resumed his speech. The audience listened intently. Mr
Bickersdyke, having said some nasty things about Free Trade and the
Alien Immigrant, turned to the Needs of the Navy and the necessity of
increasing the fleet at all costs.
'This is no time for half-measures,' he said. 'We must do our
utmost. We must burn our boats—'
'Excuse me,' said a gentle voice.
Mr Bickersdyke broke off. In the centre of the hall a tall figure
had risen. Mr Bickersdyke found himself looking at a gleaming eye-glass
which the speaker had just polished and inserted in his eye.
The ordinary heckler Mr Bickersdyke would have taken in his stride.
He had got his audience, and simply by continuing and ignoring the
interruption, he could have won through in safety. But the sudden
appearance of Psmith unnerved him. He remained silent.
'How,' asked Psmith, 'do you propose to strengthen the Navy by
The inanity of the question enraged even the pleasure-seekers at the
'Order! Order!' cried the earnest contingent.
'Sit down, fice!' roared the pleasure-seekers.
Psmith sat down with a patient smile.
Mr Bickersdyke resumed his speech. But the fire had gone out of it.
He had lost his audience. A moment before, he had grasped them and
played on their minds (or what passed for minds down Kenningford way)
as on a stringed instrument. Now he had lost his hold.
He spoke on rapidly, but he could not get into his stride. The
trivial interruption had broken the spell. His words lacked grip. The
dead silence in which the first part of his speech had been received,
that silence which is a greater tribute to the speaker than any
applause, had given place to a restless medley of little noises; here a
cough; there a scraping of a boot along the floor, as its wearer moved
uneasily in his seat; in another place a whispered conversation. The
audience was bored.
Mr Bickersdyke left the Navy, and went on to more general topics.
But he was not interesting. He quoted figures, saw a moment later that
he had not quoted them accurately, and instead of carrying on boldly,
went back and corrected himself.
'Gow up top!' said a voice at the back of the hall, and there was a
Mr Bickersdyke galloped unsteadily on. He condemned the Government.
He said they had betrayed their trust.
And then he told an anecdote.
'The Government, gentlemen,' he said, 'achieves nothing worth
achieving, and every individual member of the Government takes all the
credit for what is done to himself. Their methods remind me, gentlemen,
of an amusing experience I had while fishing one summer in the Lake
In a volume entitled 'Three Men in a Boat' there is a story of how
the author and a friend go into a riverside inn and see a very large
trout in a glass case. They make inquiries about it, have men assure
them, one by one, that the trout was caught by themselves. In the end
the trout turns out to be made of plaster of Paris.
Mr Bickersdyke told that story as an experience of his own while
fishing one summer in the Lake District.
It went well. The meeting was amused. Mr Bickersdyke went on to draw
a trenchant comparison between the lack of genuine merit in the trout
and the lack of genuine merit in the achievements of His Majesty's
There was applause.
When it had ceased, Psmith rose to his feet again.
'Excuse me,' he said.
Mike had refused to accompany Psmith to the meeting that evening,
saying that he got too many chances in the ordinary way of business of
hearing Mr Bickersdyke speak, without going out of his way to make
more. So Psmith had gone off to Kenningford alone, and Mike, feeling
too lazy to sally out to any place of entertainment, had remained at
the flat with a novel.
He was deep in this, when there was the sound of a key in the latch,
and shortly afterwards Psmith entered the room. On Psmith's brow there
was a look of pensive care, and also a slight discoloration. When he
removed his overcoat, Mike saw that his collar was burst and hanging
loose and that he had no tie. On his erstwhile speckless and gleaming
shirt front were number of finger-impressions, of a boldness and
clearness of outline which would have made a Bertillon expert leap with
'Hullo!' said Mike dropping his book.
Psmith nodded in silence, went to his bedroom, and returned with a
looking-glass. Propping this up on a table, he proceeded to examine
himself with the utmost care. He shuddered slightly as his eye fell on
the finger-marks; and without a word he went into his bathroom again.
He emerged after an interval of ten minutes in sky-blue pyjamas,
slippers, and an Old Etonian blazer. He lit a cigarette; and, sitting
down, stared pensively into the fire.
'What the dickens have you been playing at?' demanded Mike.
Psmith heaved a sigh.
'That,' he replied, 'I could not say precisely. At one moment it
seemed to be Rugby football, at another a jiu-jitsu seance.
Later, it bore a resemblance to a pantomime rally. However, whatever it
was, it was all very bright and interesting. A distinct experience.'
'Have you been scrapping?' asked Mike. 'What happened? Was there a
'There was,' said Psmith, 'in a measure what might be described as a
row. At least, when you find a perfect stranger attaching himself to
your collar and pulling, you begin to suspect that something of that
kind is on the bill.'
'Did they do that?'
'A merchant in a moth-eaten bowler started warbling to a certain
extent with me. It was all very trying for a man of culture. He was a
man who had, I should say, discovered that alcohol was a food long
before the doctors found it out. A good chap, possibly, but a little
boisterous in his manner. Well, well.'
Psmith shook his head sadly.
'He got you one on the forehead,' said Mike, 'or somebody did. Tell
us what happened. I wish the dickens I'd come with you. I'd no notion
there would be a rag of any sort. What did happen?'
'Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith sorrowfully, 'how sad it is in this
life of ours to be consistently misunderstood. You know, of course, how
wrapped up I am in Comrade Bickersdyke's welfare. You know that all my
efforts are directed towards making a decent man of him; that, in
short, I am his truest friend. Does he show by so much as a word that
he appreciates my labours? Not he. I believe that man is beginning to
dislike me, Comrade Jackson.'
'What happened, anyhow? Never mind about Bickersdyke.'
'Perhaps it was mistaken zeal on my part.... Well, I will tell you
all. Make a long arm for the shovel, Comrade Jackson, and pile on a few
more coals. I thank you. Well, all went quite smoothly for a while.
Comrade B. in quite good form. Got his second wind, and was going
strong for the tape, when a regrettable incident occurred. He informed
the meeting, that while up in the Lake country, fishing, he went to an
inn and saw a remarkably large stuffed trout in a glass case. He made
inquiries, and found that five separate and distinct people had
'Why, dash it all,' said Mike, 'that's a frightful chestnut.'
'It certainly has appeared in print,' he said. 'In fact I should
have said it was rather a well-known story. I was so interested in
Comrade Bickersdyke's statement that the thing had happened to himself
that, purely out of good-will towards him, I got up and told him that I
thought it was my duty, as a friend, to let him know that a man named
Jerome had pinched his story, put it in a book, and got money by it.
Money, mark you, that should by rights have been Comrade Bickersdyke's.
He didn't appear to care much about sifting the matter thoroughly. In
fact, he seemed anxious to get on with his speech, and slur the matter
over. But, tactlessly perhaps, I continued rather to harp on the thing.
I said that the book in which the story had appeared was published in
1889. I asked him how long ago it was that he had been on his fishing
tour, because it was important to know in order to bring the charge
home against Jerome. Well, after a bit, I was amazed, and pained, too,
to hear Comrade Bickersdyke urging certain bravoes in the audience to
turn me out. If ever there was a case of biting the hand that fed
him.... Well, well.... By this time the meeting had begun to take sides
to some extent. What I might call my party, the Earnest Investigators,
were whistling between their fingers, stamping on the floor, and
shouting, “Chestnuts!” while the opposing party, the bravoes, seemed to
be trying, as I say, to do jiu-jitsu tricks with me. It was a painful
situation. I know the cultivated man of affairs should have passed the
thing off with a short, careless laugh; but, owing to the
above-mentioned alcohol-expert having got both hands under my collar,
short, careless laughs were off. I was compelled, very reluctantly, to
conclude the interview by tapping the bright boy on the jaw. He took
the hint, and sat down on the floor. I thought no more of the matter,
and was making my way thoughtfully to the exit, when a second man of
wrath put the above on my forehead. You can't ignore a thing like that.
I collected some of his waistcoat and one of his legs, and hove him
with some vim into the middle distance. By this time a good many of the
Earnest Investigators were beginning to join in; and it was just there
that the affair began to have certain points of resemblance to a
pantomime rally. Everybody seemed to be shouting a good deal and
hitting everybody else. It was no place for a man of delicate culture,
so I edged towards the door, and drifted out. There was a cab in the
offing. I boarded it. And, having kicked a vigorous politician in the
stomach, as he was endeavouring to climb in too, I drove off home.'
Psmith got up, looked at his forehead once more in the glass,
sighed, and sat down again.
'All very disturbing,' he said.
'Great Scott,' said Mike, 'I wish I'd come. Why on earth didn't you
tell me you were going to rag? I think you might as well have done. I
wouldn't have missed it for worlds.'
Psmith regarded him with raised eyebrows.
'Rag!' he said. 'Comrade Jackson, I do not understand you. You
surely do not think that I had any other object in doing what I did
than to serve Comrade Bickersdyke? It's terrible how one's motives get
distorted in this world of ours.'
'Well,' said Mike, with a grin, 'I know one person who'll jolly well
distort your motives, as you call it, and that's Bickersdyke.'
Psmith looked thoughtful.
'True,' he said, 'true. There is that possibility. I tell you,
Comrade Jackson, once more that my bright young life is being slowly
blighted by the frightful way in which that man misunderstands me. It
seems almost impossible to try to do him a good turn without having the
'What'll you say to him tomorrow?'
'I shall make no allusion to the painful affair. If I happen to meet
him in the ordinary course of business routine, I shall pass some
light, pleasant remark—on the weather, let us say, or the Bank
rate—and continue my duties.'
'How about if he sends for you, and wants to do the light, pleasant
remark business on his own?'
'In that case I shall not thwart him. If he invites me into his
private room, I shall be his guest, and shall discuss, to the best of
my ability, any topic which he may care to introduce. There shall be no
constraint between Comrade Bickersdyke and myself.'
'No, I shouldn't think there would be. I wish I could come and hear
'I wish you could,' said Psmith courteously.
'Still, it doesn't matter much to you. You don't care if you do get
'In that way possibly, as you say, I am agreeably situated. If the
New Asiatic Bank does not require Psmith's services, there are other
spheres where a young man of spirit may carve a place for himself. No,
what is worrying me, Comrade Jackson, is not the thought of the push.
It is the growing fear that Comrade Bickersdyke and I will never
thoroughly understand and appreciate one another. A deep gulf lies
between us. I do what I can do to bridge it over, but he makes no
response. On his side of the gulf building operations appear to be at
an entire standstill. That is what is carving these lines of care on my
forehead, Comrade Jackson. That is what is painting these purple
circles beneath my eyes. Quite inadvertently to be disturbing Comrade
Bickersdyke, annoying him, preventing him from enjoying life. How sad
this is. Life bulges with these tragedies.'
Mike picked up the evening paper.
'Don't let it keep you awake at night,' he said. 'By the way, did
you see that Manchester United were playing this afternoon? They won.
You'd better sit down and sweat up some of the details. You'll want
'You are very right, Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith, reseating
himself. 'So the Mancunians pushed the bulb into the meshes beyond the
uprights no fewer than four times, did they? Bless the dear boys, what
spirits they do enjoy, to be sure. Comrade Jackson, do not disturb me.
I must concentrate myself. These are deep waters.'
12. In a Nutshell
Mr Bickersdyke sat in his private room at the New Asiatic Bank with
a pile of newspapers before him. At least, the casual observer would
have said that it was Mr Bickersdyke. In reality, however, it was an
active volcano in the shape and clothes of the bank-manager. It was
freely admitted in the office that morning that the manager had lowered
all records with ease. The staff had known him to be in a bad temper
before—frequently; but his frame of mind on all previous occasions had
been, compared with his present frame of mind, that of a rather
exceptionally good-natured lamb. Within ten minutes of his arrival the
entire office was on the jump. The messengers were collected in a
pallid group in the basement, discussing the affair in whispers and
endeavouring to restore their nerve with about sixpenn'orth of the
beverage known as 'unsweetened'. The heads of departments, to a man,
had bowed before the storm. Within the space of seven minutes and a
quarter Mr Bickersdyke had contrived to find some fault with each of
them. Inward Bills was out at an A.B.C. shop snatching a hasty cup of
coffee, to pull him together again. Outward Bills was sitting at his
desk with the glazed stare of one who has been struck in the thorax by
a thunderbolt. Mr Rossiter had been torn from Psmith in the middle of a
highly technical discussion of the Manchester United match, just as he
was showing—with the aid of a ball of paper—how he had once seen
Meredith centre to Sandy Turnbull in a Cup match, and was now leaping
about like a distracted grasshopper. Mr Waller, head of the Cash
Department, had been summoned to the Presence, and after listening
meekly to a rush of criticism, had retired to his desk with the air of
a beaten spaniel.
Only one man of the many in the building seemed calm and
Psmith had resumed the chat about Manchester United, on Mr
Rossiter's return from the lion's den, at the spot where it had been
broken off; but, finding that the head of the Postage Department was in
no mood for discussing football (or any thing else), he had postponed
his remarks and placidly resumed his work.
Mr Bickersdyke picked up a paper, opened it, and began searching the
columns. He had not far to look. It was a slack season for the
newspapers, and his little trouble, which might have received a
paragraph in a busy week, was set forth fully in three-quarters of a
The column was headed, 'Amusing Heckling'.
Mr Bickersdyke read a few lines, and crumpled the paper up with a
The next he examined was an organ of his own shade of political
opinion. It too, gave him nearly a column, headed 'Disgraceful Scene at
Kenningford'. There was also a leaderette on the subject.
The leaderette said so exactly what Mr Bickersdyke thought himself
that for a moment he was soothed. Then the thought of his grievance
returned, and he pressed the bell.
'Send Mr Smith to me,' he said.
William, the messenger, proceeded to inform Psmith of the summons.
Psmith's face lit up.
'I am always glad to sweeten the monotony of toil with a chat with
Little Clarence,' he said. 'I shall be with him in a moment.'
He cleaned his pen very carefully, placed it beside his ledger,
flicked a little dust off his coatsleeve, and made his way to the
Mr Bickersdyke received him with the ominous restraint of a tiger
crouching for its spring. Psmith stood beside the table with languid
grace, suggestive of some favoured confidential secretary waiting for
A ponderous silence brooded over the room for some moments. Psmith
broke it by remarking that the Bank Rate was unchanged. He mentioned
this fact as if it afforded him a personal gratification.
Mr Bickersdyke spoke.
'Well, Mr Smith?' he said.
'You wished to see me about something, sir?' inquired Psmith,
'You know perfectly well what I wished to see you about. I want to
hear your explanation of what occurred last night.'
'May I sit, sir?'
He dropped gracefully into a chair, without waiting for permission,
and, having hitched up the knees of his trousers, beamed winningly at
'A deplorable affair,' he said, with a shake of his head. 'Extremely
deplorable. We must not judge these rough, uneducated men too harshly,
however. In a time of excitement the emotions of the lower classes are
easily stirred. Where you or I would—'
Mr Bickersdyke interrupted.
'I do not wish for any more buffoonery, Mr Smith—'
Psmith raised a pained pair of eyebrows.
'I cannot understand what made you act as you did last night, unless
you are perfectly mad, as I am beginning to think.'
'But, surely, sir, there was nothing remarkable in my behaviour?
When a merchant has attached himself to your collar, can you do less
than smite him on the other cheek? I merely acted in self-defence. You
saw for yourself—'
'You know what I am alluding to. Your behaviour during my speech.'
'An excellent speech,' murmured Psmith courteously.
'Well?' said Mr Bickersdyke.
'It was, perhaps, mistaken zeal on my part, sir, but you must
remember that I acted purely from the best motives. It seemed to me—'
'That is enough, Mr Smith. I confess that I am absolutely at a loss
to understand you—'
'It is too true, sir,' sighed Psmith.
'You seem,' continued Mr Bickersdyke, warming to his subject, and
turning gradually a richer shade of purple, 'you seem to be determined
to endeavour to annoy me.' ('No no,' from Psmith.) 'I can only assume
that you are not in your right senses. You follow me about in my
'Our club, sir,' murmured Psmith.
'Be good enough not to interrupt me, Mr Smith. You dog my footsteps
in my club—'
'Purely accidental, sir. We happen to meet—that is all.'
'You attend meetings at which I am speaking, and behave in a
perfectly imbecile manner.'
Psmith moaned slightly.
'It may seem humorous to you, but I can assure you it is extremely
bad policy on your part. The New Asiatic Bank is no place for humour,
and I think—'
'Excuse me, sir,' said Psmith.
The manager started at the familiar phrase. The plum-colour of his
'I entirely agree with you, sir,' said Psmith, 'that this bank is no
place for humour.'
'Very well, then. You—'
'And I am never humorous in it. I arrive punctually in the; morning,
and I work steadily and earnestly till my labours are completed. I
think you will find, on inquiry, that Mr Rossiter is satisfied with my
'That is neither here nor—'
'Surely, sir,' said Psmith, 'you are wrong? Surely your jurisdiction
ceases after office hours? Any little misunderstanding we may have at
the close of the day's work cannot affect you officially. You could
not, for instance, dismiss me from the service of the bank if we were
partners at bridge at the club and I happened to revoke.'
'I can dismiss you, let me tell you, Mr Smith, for studied
insolence, whether in the office or not.'
'I bow to superior knowledge,' said Psmith politely, 'but I confess
I doubt it. And,' he added, 'there is another point. May I continue to
'If you have anything to say, say it.'
Psmith flung one leg over the other, and settled his collar.
'It is perhaps a delicate matter,' he said, 'but it is best to be
frank. We should have no secrets. To put my point quite clearly, I must
go back a little, to the time when you paid us that very welcome
week-end visit at our house in August.'
'If you hope to make capital out of the fact that I have been a
guest of your father—'
'Not at all,' said Psmith deprecatingly. 'Not at all. You do not
take me. My point is this. I do not wish to revive painful memories,
but it cannot be denied that there was, here and there, some slight
bickering between us on that occasion. The fault,' said Psmith
magnanimously, 'was possibly mine. I may have been too exacting, too
capricious. Perhaps so. However, the fact remains that you conceived
the happy notion of getting me into this bank, under the impression
that, once I was in, you would be able to—if I may use the
expression—give me beans. You said as much to me, if I remember. I
hate to say it, but don't you think that if you give me the sack,
although my work is satisfactory to the head of my department, you will
be by way of admitting that you bit off rather more than you could
chew? I merely make the suggestion.'
Mr Bickersdyke half rose from his chair.
'Just so, just so, but—to return to the main point—don't you? The
whole painful affair reminds me of the story of Agesilaus and the
Petulant Pterodactyl, which as you have never heard, I will now proceed
to relate. Agesilaus—'
Mr Bickersdyke made a curious clucking noise in his throat.
'I am boring you,' said Psmith, with ready tact. 'Suffice it to say
that Comrade Agesilaus interfered with the pterodactyl, which was doing
him no harm; and the intelligent creature, whose motto was “Nemo me
impune lacessit", turned and bit him. Bit him good and hard, so that
Agesilaus ever afterwards had a distaste for pterodactyls. His
reluctance to disturb them became quite a byword. The Society papers of
the period frequently commented upon it. Let us draw the parallel.'
Here Mr Bickersdyke, who had been clucking throughout this speech,
essayed to speak; but Psmith hurried on.
'You are Agesilaus,' he said. 'I am the Petulant Pterodactyl. You,
if I may say so, butted in of your own free will, and took me from a
happy home, simply in order that you might get me into this place under
you, and give me beans. But, curiously enough, the major portion of
that vegetable seems to be coming to you. Of course, you can administer
the push if you like; but, as I say, it will be by way of a confession
that your scheme has sprung a leak. Personally,' said Psmith, as one
friend to another, 'I should advise you to stick it out. You never know
what may happen. At any moment I may fall from my present high standard
of industry and excellence; and then you have me, so to speak, where
the hair is crisp.'
He paused. Mr Bickersdyke's eyes, which even in their normal state
protruded slightly, now looked as if they might fall out at any moment.
His face had passed from the plum-coloured stage to something beyond.
Every now and then he made the clucking noise, but except for that he
was silent. Psmith, having waited for some time for something in the
shape of comment or criticism on his remarks, now rose.
'It has been a great treat to me, this little chat,' he said
affably, 'but I fear that I must no longer allow purely social
enjoyments to interfere with my commercial pursuits. With your
permission, I will rejoin my department, where my absence is doubtless
already causing comment and possibly dismay. But we shall be meeting at
the club shortly, I hope. Good-bye, sir, good-bye.'
He left the room, and walked dreamily back to the Postage
Department, leaving the manager still staring glassily at nothing.
13. Mike is Moved On
This episode may be said to have concluded the first act of the
commercial drama in which Mike and Psmith had been cast for leading
parts. And, as usually happens after the end of an act, there was a
lull for a while until things began to work up towards another climax.
Mike, as day succeeded day, began to grow accustomed to the life of the
bank, and to find that it had its pleasant side after all. Whenever a
number of people are working at the same thing, even though that thing
is not perhaps what they would have chosen as an object in life, if
left to themselves, there is bound to exist an atmosphere of
good-fellowship; something akin to, though a hundred times weaker than,
the public school spirit. Such a community lacks the main motive of the
public school spirit, which is pride in the school and its
achievements. Nobody can be proud of the achievements of a bank. When
the business of arranging a new Japanese loan was given to the New
Asiatic Bank, its employees did not stand on stools, and cheer. On the
contrary, they thought of the extra work it would involve; and they
cursed a good deal, though there was no denying that it was a big thing
for the bank—not unlike winning the Ashburton would be to a school.
There is a cold impersonality about a bank. A school is a living thing.
Setting aside this important difference, there was a good deal of
the public school about the New Asiatic Bank. The heads of departments
were not quite so autocratic as masters, and one was treated more on a
grown-up scale, as man to man; but, nevertheless, there remained a
distinct flavour of a school republic. Most of the men in the bank,
with the exception of certain hard-headed Scotch youths drafted in from
other establishments in the City, were old public school men. Mike
found two Old Wrykinians in the first week. Neither was well known to
him. They had left in his second year in the team. But it was pleasant
to have them about, and to feel that they had been educated at the
As far as Mike's personal comfort went, the presence of these two
Wrykinians was very much for the good. Both of them knew all about his
cricket, and they spread the news. The New Asiatic Bank, like most
London banks, was keen on sport, and happened to possess a cricket team
which could make a good game with most of the second-rank clubs. The
disappearance to the East of two of the best bats of the previous
season caused Mike's advent to be hailed with a good deal of
enthusiasm. Mike was a county man. He had only played once for his
county, it was true, but that did not matter. He had passed the barrier
which separates the second-class bat from the first-class, and the bank
welcomed him with awe. County men did not come their way every day.
Mike did not like being in the bank, considered in the light of a
career. But he bore no grudge against the inmates of the bank, such as
he had borne against the inmates of Sedleigh. He had looked on the
latter as bound up with the school, and, consequently, enemies. His
fellow workers in the bank he regarded as companions in misfortune.
They were all in the same boat together. There were men from Tonbridge,
Dulwich, Bedford, St Paul's, and a dozen other schools. One or two of
them he knew by repute from the pages of Wisden. Bannister, his
cheerful predecessor in the Postage Department, was the Bannister, he
recollected now, who had played for Geddington against Wrykyn in his
second year in the Wrykyn team. Munroe, the big man in the Fixed
Deposits, he remembered as leader of the Ripton pack. Every day brought
fresh discoveries of this sort, and each made Mike more reconciled to
his lot. They were a pleasant set of fellows in the New Asiatic Bank,
and but for the dreary outlook which the future held—for Mike, unlike
most of his follow workers, was not attracted by the idea of a life in
the East—he would have been very fairly content.
The hostility of Mr Bickersdyke was a slight drawback. Psmith had
developed a habit of taking Mike with him to the club of an evening;
and this did not do anything towards wiping out of the manager's mind
the recollection of his former passage of arms with the Old Wrykinian.
The glass remaining Set Fair as far as Mr Rossiter's approval was
concerned, Mike was enabled to keep off the managerial carpet to a
great extent; but twice, when he posted letters without going through
the preliminary formality of stamping them, Mr Bickersdyke had
opportunities of which he availed himself. But for these incidents life
was fairly enjoyable. Owing to Psmith's benevolent efforts, the Postage
Department became quite a happy family, and ex-occupants of the postage
desk, Bannister especially, were amazed at the change that had come
over Mr Rossiter. He no longer darted from his lair like a pouncing
panther. To report his subordinates to the manager seemed now to be a
lost art with him. The sight of Psmith and Mr Rossiter proceeding high
and disposedly to a mutual lunch became quite common, and ceased to
'By kindness,' said Psmith to Mike, after one of these expeditions.
'By tact and kindness. That is how it is done. I do not despair of
training Comrade Rossiter one of these days to jump through paper
So that, altogether, Mike's life in the bank had become very fairly
Out of office-hours he enjoyed himself hugely. London was strange to
him, and with Psmith as a companion, he extracted a vast deal of
entertainment from it. Psmith was not unacquainted with the West End,
and he proved an excellent guide. At first Mike expostulated with
unfailing regularity at the other's habit of paying for everything, but
Psmith waved aside all objections with languid firmness.
'I need you, Comrade Jackson,' he said, when Mike lodged a protest
on finding himself bound for the stalls for the second night in
succession. 'We must stick together. As my confidential secretary and
adviser, your place is by my side. Who knows but that between the acts
tonight I may not be seized with some luminous thought? Could I utter
this to my next-door neighbour or the programme-girl? Stand by me,
Comrade Jackson, or we are undone.'
So Mike stood by him.
By this time Mike had grown so used to his work that he could tell
to within five minutes when a rush would come; and he was able to spend
a good deal of his time reading a surreptitious novel behind a pile of
ledgers, or down in the tea-room. The New Asiatic Bank supplied tea to
its employees. In quality it was bad, and the bread-and-butter
associated with it was worse. But it had the merit of giving one an
excuse for being away from one's desk. There were large printed notices
all over the tea-room, which was in the basement, informing gentlemen
that they were only allowed ten minutes for tea, but one took just as
long as one thought the head of one's department would stand, from
twenty-five minutes to an hour and a quarter.
This state of things was too good to last. Towards the beginning of
the New Year a new man arrived, and Mike was moved on to another
14. Mr Waller Appears in a New Light
The department into which Mike was sent was the Cash, or, to be more
exact, that section of it which was known as Paying Cashier. The
important task of shooting doubloons across the counter did not belong
to Mike himself, but to Mr Waller. Mike's work was less ostentatious,
and was performed with pen, ink, and ledgers in the background.
Occasionally, when Mr Waller was out at lunch, Mike had to act as
substitute for him, and cash cheques; but Mr Waller always went out at
a slack time, when few customers came in, and Mike seldom had any very
startling sum to hand over.
He enjoyed being in the Cash Department. He liked Mr Waller. The
work was easy; and when he did happen to make mistakes, they were
corrected patiently by the grey-bearded one, and not used as levers for
boosting him into the presence of Mr Bickersdyke, as they might have
been in some departments. The cashier seemed to have taken a fancy to
Mike; and Mike, as was usually the way with him when people went out of
their way to be friendly, was at his best. Mike at his ease and
unsuspicious of hostile intentions was a different person from Mike
with his prickles out.
Psmith, meanwhile, was not enjoying himself. It was an unheard-of
thing, he said, depriving a man of his confidential secretary without
so much as asking his leave.
'It has caused me the greatest inconvenience,' he told Mike,
drifting round in a melancholy way to the Cash Department during a
slack spell one afternoon. 'I miss you at every turn. Your keen
intelligence and ready sympathy were invaluable to me. Now where am I?
In the cart. I evolved a slightly bright thought on life just now.
There was nobody to tell it to except the new man. I told it him, and
the fool gaped. I tell you, Comrade Jackson, I feel like some lion that
has been robbed of its cub. I feel as Marshall would feel if they took
Snelgrove away from him, or as Peace might if he awoke one morning to
find Plenty gone. Comrade Rossiter does his best. We still talk
brokenly about Manchester United—they got routed in the first round of
the Cup yesterday and Comrade Rossiter is wearing black—but it is not
the same. I try work, but that is no good either. From ledger to ledger
they hurry me, to stifle my regret. And when they win a smile from me,
they think that I forget. But I don't. I am a broken man. That new
exhibit they've got in your place is about as near to the Extreme Edge
as anything I've ever seen. One of Nature's blighters. Well, well, I
must away. Comrade Rossiter awaits me.'
Mike's successor, a youth of the name of Bristow, was causing Psmith
a great deal of pensive melancholy. His worst defect—which he could
not help—was that he was not Mike. His others—which he could—were
numerous. His clothes were cut in a way that harrowed Psmith's
sensitive soul every time he looked at them. The fact that he wore
detachable cuffs, which he took off on beginning work and stacked in a
glistening pile on the desk in front of him, was no proof of innate
viciousness of disposition, but it prejudiced the Old Etonian against
him. It was part of Psmith's philosophy that a man who wore detachable
cuffs had passed beyond the limit of human toleration. In addition,
Bristow wore a small black moustache and a ring and that, as Psmith
informed Mike, put the lid on it.
Mike would sometimes stroll round to the Postage Department to
listen to the conversations between the two. Bristow was always
friendliness itself. He habitually addressed Psmith as Smithy, a fact
which entertained Mike greatly but did not seem to amuse Psmith to any
overwhelming extent. On the other hand, when, as he generally did, he
called Mike 'Mister Cricketer', the humour of the thing appeared to
elude Mike, though the mode of address always drew from Psmith a pale,
wan smile, as of a broken heart made cheerful against its own
The net result of the coming of Bristow was that Psmith spent most
of his time, when not actually oppressed by a rush of work, in the
precincts of the Cash Department, talking to Mike and Mr Waller. The
latter did not seem to share the dislike common among the other heads
of departments of seeing his subordinates receiving visitors. Unless
the work was really heavy, in which case a mild remonstrance escaped
him, he offered no objection to Mike being at home to Psmith. It was
this tolerance which sometimes got him into trouble with Mr
Bickersdyke. The manager did not often perambulate the office, but he
did occasionally, and the interview which ensued upon his finding
Hutchinson, the underling in the Cash Department at that time, with his
stool tilted comfortably against the wall, reading the sporting news
from a pink paper to a friend from the Outward Bills Department who lay
luxuriously on the floor beside him, did not rank among Mr Waller's
pleasantest memories. But Mr Waller was too soft-hearted to interfere
with his assistants unless it was absolutely necessary. The truth of
the matter was that the New Asiatic Bank was over-staffed. There were
too many men for the work. The London branch of the bank was really
only a nursery. New men were constantly wanted in the Eastern branches,
so they had to be put into the London branch to learn the business,
whether there was any work for them to do or not.
It was after one of these visits of Psmith's that Mr Waller
displayed a new and unsuspected side to his character. Psmith had come
round in a state of some depression to discuss Bristow, as usual.
Bristow, it seemed, had come to the bank that morning in a fancy
waistcoat of so emphatic a colour-scheme that Psmith stoutly refused to
sit in the same department with it.
'What with Comrades Bristow and Bickersdyke combined,' said Psmith
plaintively, 'the work is becoming too hard for me. The whisper is
beginning to circulate, “Psmith's number is up—As a reformer he is
merely among those present. He is losing his dash.” But what can I do?
I cannot keep an eye on both of them at the same time. The moment I
concentrate myself on Comrade Bickersdyke for a brief spell, and seem
to be doing him a bit of good, what happens? Why, Comrade Bristow
sneaks off and buys a sort of woollen sunset. I saw the thing
unexpectedly. I tell you I was shaken. It is the suddenness of that
waistcoat which hits you. It's discouraging, this sort of thing. I try
always to think well of my fellow man. As an energetic Socialist, I do
my best to see the good that is in him, but it's hard. Comrade
Bristow's the most striking argument against the equality of man I've
ever come across.'
Mr Waller intervened at this point.
'I think you must really let Jackson go on with his work, Smith,' he
said. 'There seems to be too much talking.'
'My besetting sin,' said Psmith sadly. 'Well, well, I will go back
and do my best to face it, but it's a tough job.'
He tottered wearily away in the direction of the Postage Department.
'Oh, Jackson,' said Mr Waller, 'will you kindly take my place for a
few minutes? I must go round and see the Inward Bills about something.
I shall be back very soon.'
Mike was becoming accustomed to deputizing for the cashier for short
spaces of time. It generally happened that he had to do so once or
twice a day. Strictly speaking, perhaps, Mr Waller was wrong to leave
such an important task as the actual cashing of cheques to an
inexperienced person of Mike's standing; but the New Asiatic Bank
differed from most banks in that there was not a great deal of
cross-counter work. People came in fairly frequently to cash cheques of
two or three pounds, but it was rare that any very large dealings took
Having completed his business with the Inward Bills, Mr Waller made
his way back by a circuitous route, taking in the Postage desk.
He found Psmith with a pale, set face, inscribing figures in a
ledger. The Old Etonian greeted him with the faint smile of a
persecuted saint who is determined to be cheerful even at the stake.
'Comrade Bristow,' he said.
'Hullo, Smithy?' said the other, turning.
Psmith sadly directed Mr Waller's attention to the waistcoat, which
was certainly definite in its colouring.
'Nothing,' said Psmith. 'I only wanted to look at you.'
'Funny ass,' said Bristow, resuming his work. Psmith glanced at Mr
Waller, as who should say, 'See what I have to put up with. And yet I
do not give way.'
'Oh—er—Smith,' said Mr Waller, 'when you were talking to Jackson
'Say no more,' said Psmith. 'It shall not occur again. Why should I
dislocate the work of your department in my efforts to win a
sympathetic word? I will bear Comrade Bristow like a man here. After
all, there are worse things at the Zoo.'
'No, no,' said Mr Waller hastily, 'I did not mean that. By all means
pay us a visit now and then, if it does not interfere with your own
work. But I noticed just now that you spoke to Bristow as Comrade
'It is too true,' said Psmith. 'I must correct myself of the habit.
He will be getting above himself.'
'And when you were speaking to Jackson, you spoke of yourself as a
'Socialism is the passion of my life,' said Psmith.
Mr Waller's face grew animated. He stammered in his eagerness.
'I am delighted,' he said. 'Really, I am delighted. I also—'
'A fellow worker in the Cause?' said Psmith.
Psmith extended his hand gravely. Mr Waller shook it with
'I have never liked to speak of it to anybody in the office,' said
Mr Waller, 'but I, too, am heart and soul in the movement.'
'Yours for the Revolution?' said Psmith.
'Just so. Just so. Exactly. I was wondering—the fact is, I am in
the habit of speaking on Sundays in the open air, and—'
'No. No. Clapham Common. It is—er—handier for me where I live.
Now, as you are interested in the movement, I was thinking that perhaps
you might care to come and hear me speak next Sunday. Of course, if you
have nothing better to do.'
'I should like to excessively,' said Psmith.
'Excellent. Bring Jackson with you, and both of you come to supper
afterwards, if you will.'
'Thanks very much.'
'Perhaps you would speak yourself?'
'No,' said Psmith. 'No. I think not. My Socialism is rather of the
practical sort. I seldom speak. But it would be a treat to listen to
you. What—er—what type of oratory is yours?'
'Oh, well,' said Mr Waller, pulling nervously at his beard, 'of
course I—. Well, I am perhaps a little bitter—'
'A little mordant and ironical.'
'You would be,' agreed Psmith. 'I shall look forward to Sunday with
every fibre quivering. And Comrade Jackson shall be at my side.'
'Excellent,' said Mr Waller. 'I will go and tell him now.'
15. Stirring Times on the Common
'The first thing to do,' said Psmith, 'is to ascertain that such a
place as Clapham Common really exists. One has heard of it, of course,
but has its existence ever been proved? I think not. Having
accomplished that, we must then try to find out how to get to it. I
should say at a venture that it would necessitate a sea-voyage. On the
other hand, Comrade Waller, who is a native of the spot, seems to find
no difficulty in rolling to the office every morning. Therefore—you
follow me, Jackson?—it must be in England. In that case, we will take
a taximeter cab, and go out into the unknown, hand in hand, trusting to
'I expect you could get there by tram,' said Mike.
Psmith suppressed a slight shudder.
'I fear, Comrade Jackson,' he said, 'that the old noblesse oblige
traditions of the Psmiths would not allow me to do that. No. We will
stroll gently, after a light lunch, to Trafalgar Square, and hail a
'But with what an object! Can any expenditure be called excessive
which enables us to hear Comrade Waller being mordant and ironical at
the other end?'
'It's a rum business,' said Mike. 'I hope the dickens he won't mix
us up in it. We should look frightful fools.'
'I may possibly say a few words,' said Psmith carelessly, 'if the
spirit moves me. Who am I that I should deny people a simple pleasure?'
Mike looked alarmed.
'Look here,' he said, 'I say, if you are going to play the
goat, for goodness' sake don't go lugging me into it. I've got heaps of
troubles without that.'
Psmith waved the objection aside.
'You,' he said, 'will be one of the large, and, I hope, interested
audience. Nothing more. But it is quite possible that the spirit may
not move me. I may not feel inspired to speak. I am not one of those
who love speaking for speaking's sake. If I have no message for the
many-headed, I shall remain silent.'
'Then I hope the dickens you won't have,' said Mike. Of all things
he hated most being conspicuous before a crowd—except at cricket,
which was a different thing—and he had an uneasy feeling that Psmith
would rather like it than otherwise.
'We shall see,' said Psmith absently. 'Of course, if in the vein, I
might do something big in the way of oratory. I am a plain, blunt man,
but I feel convinced that, given the opportunity, I should haul up my
slacks to some effect. But—well, we shall see. We shall see.'
And with this ghastly state of doubt Mike had to be content.
It was with feelings of apprehension that he accompanied Psmith from
the flat to Trafalgar Square in search of a cab which should convey
them to Clapham Common.
They were to meet Mr Waller at the edge of the Common nearest the
old town of Clapham. On the journey down Psmith was inclined to be
debonnaire. Mike, on the other hand, was silent and apprehensive.
He knew enough of Psmith to know that, if half an opportunity were
offered him, he would extract entertainment from this affair after his
own fashion; and then the odds were that he himself would be dragged
into it. Perhaps—his scalp bristled at the mere idea—he would even be
let in for a speech.
This grisly thought had hardly come into his head, when Psmith
'I'm not half sure,' he said thoughtfully, 'I sha'n't call on you
for a speech, Comrade Jackson.'
'Look here, Psmith—' began Mike agitatedly.
'I don't know. I think your solid, incisive style would rather go
down with the masses. However, we shall see, we shall see.'
Mike reached the Common in a state of nervous collapse.
Mr Waller was waiting for them by the railings near the pond. The
apostle of the Revolution was clad soberly in black, except for a tie
of vivid crimson. His eyes shone with the light of enthusiasm, vastly
different from the mild glow of amiability which they exhibited for six
days in every week. The man was transformed.
'Here you are,' he said. 'Here you are. Excellent. You are in good
time. Comrades Wotherspoon and Prebble have already begun to speak. I
shall commence now that you have come. This is the way. Over by these
They made their way towards a small clump of trees, near which a
fair-sized crowd had already begun to collect. Evidently listening to
the speakers was one of Clapham's fashionable Sunday amusements. Mr
Waller talked and gesticulated incessantly as he walked. Psmith's
demeanour was perhaps a shade patronizing, but he displayed interest.
Mike proceeded to the meeting with the air of an about-to-be-washed
dog. He was loathing the whole business with a heartiness worthy of a
better cause. Somehow, he felt he was going to be made to look a fool
before the afternoon was over. But he registered a vow that nothing
should drag him on to the small platform which had been erected for the
benefit of the speaker.
As they drew nearer, the voices of Comrades Wotherspoon and Prebble
became more audible. They had been audible all the time, very much so,
but now they grew in volume. Comrade Wotherspoon was a tall, thin man
with side-whiskers and a high voice. He scattered his aitches as a
fountain its sprays in a strong wind. He was very earnest. Comrade
Prebble was earnest, too. Perhaps even more so than Comrade
Wotherspoon. He was handicapped to some extent, however, by not having
a palate. This gave to his profoundest thoughts a certain weirdness, as
if they had been uttered in an unknown tongue. The crowd was thickest
round his platform. The grown-up section plainly regarded him as a
comedian, pure and simple, and roared with happy laughter when he urged
them to march upon Park Lane and loot the same without mercy or
scruple. The children were more doubtful. Several had broken down, and
been led away in tears.
When Mr Waller got up to speak on platform number three, his
audience consisted at first only of Psmith, Mike, and a fox-terrier.
Gradually however, he attracted others. After wavering for a while, the
crowd finally decided that he was worth hearing. He had a method of his
own. Lacking the natural gifts which marked Comrade Prebble out as an
entertainer, he made up for this by his activity. Where his colleagues
stood comparatively still, Mr Waller behaved with the vivacity
generally supposed to belong only to peas on shovels and cats on hot
bricks. He crouched to denounce the House of Lords. He bounded from
side to side while dissecting the methods of the plutocrats. During an
impassioned onslaught on the monarchical system he stood on one leg and
hopped. This was more the sort of thing the crowd had come to see.
Comrade Wotherspoon found himself deserted, and even Comrade Prebble's
shortcomings in the way of palate were insufficient to keep his flock
together. The entire strength of the audience gathered in front of the
Mike, separated from Psmith by the movement of the crowd, listened
with a growing depression. That feeling which attacks a sensitive
person sometimes at the theatre when somebody is making himself
ridiculous on the stage—the illogical feeling that it is he and not
the actor who is floundering—had come over him in a wave. He liked Mr
Waller, and it made his gorge rise to see him exposing himself to the
jeers of a crowd. The fact that Mr Waller himself did not know that
they were jeers, but mistook them for applause, made it no better. Mike
felt vaguely furious.
His indignation began to take a more personal shape when the
speaker, branching off from the main subject of Socialism, began to
touch on temperance. There was no particular reason why Mr Waller
should have introduced the subject of temperance, except that he
happened to be an enthusiast. He linked it on to his remarks on
Socialism by attributing the lethargy of the masses to their fondness
for alcohol; and the crowd, which had been inclined rather to pat
itself on the back during the assaults on Rank and Property, finding
itself assailed in its turn, resented it. They were there to listen to
speakers telling them that they were the finest fellows on earth, not
pointing out their little failings to them. The feeling of the meeting
became hostile. The jeers grew more frequent and less good-tempered.
'Comrade Waller means well,' said a voice in Mike's ear, 'but if he
shoots it at them like this much more there'll be a bit of an
'Look here, Smith,' said Mike quickly, 'can't we stop him? These
chaps are getting fed up, and they look bargees enough to do anything.
They'll be going for him or something soon.'
'How can we switch off the flow? I don't see. The man is wound up.
He means to get it off his chest if it snows. I feel we are by way of
being in the soup once more, Comrade Jackson. We can only sit tight and
The crowd was becoming more threatening every minute. A group of
young men of the loafer class who stood near Mike were especially
fertile in comment. Psmith's eyes were on the speaker; but Mike was
watching this group closely. Suddenly he saw one of them, a thick-set
youth wearing a cloth cap and no collar, stoop.
When he rose again there was a stone in his hand.
The sight acted on Mike like a spur. Vague rage against nobody in
particular had been simmering in him for half an hour. Now it
concentrated itself on the cloth-capped one.
Mr Waller paused momentarily before renewing his harangue. The man
in the cloth cap raised his hand. There was a swirl in the crowd, and
the first thing that Psmith saw as he turned was Mike seizing the
would-be marksman round the neck and hurling him to the ground, after
the manner of a forward at football tackling an opponent during a
line-out from touch.
There is one thing which will always distract the attention of a
crowd from any speaker, and that is a dispute between two of its units.
Mr Waller's views on temperance were forgotten in an instant. The
audience surged round Mike and his opponent.
The latter had scrambled to his feet now, and was looking round for
'That's 'im, Bill!' cried eager voices, indicating Mike.
''E's the bloke wot 'it yer, Bill,' said others, more precise in
Bill advanced on Mike in a sidelong, crab-like manner.
''Oo're you, I should like to know?' said Bill.
Mike, rightly holding that this was merely a rhetorical question and
that Bill had no real thirst for information as to his family history,
made no reply. Or, rather, the reply he made was not verbal. He waited
till his questioner was within range, and then hit him in the eye. A
reply far more satisfactory, if not to Bill himself, at any rate to the
interested onlookers, than any flow of words.
A contented sigh went up from the crowd. Their Sunday afternoon was
going to be spent just as they considered Sunday afternoons should be
'Give us your coat,' said Psmith briskly, 'and try and get it over
quick. Don't go in for any fancy sparring. Switch it on, all you know,
from the start. I'll keep a thoughtful eye open to see that none of his
friends and relations join in.'
Outwardly Psmith was unruffled, but inwardly he was not feeling so
composed. An ordinary turn-up before an impartial crowd which could be
relied upon to preserve the etiquette of these matters was one thing.
As regards the actual little dispute with the cloth-capped Bill, he
felt that he could rely on Mike to handle it satisfactorily. But there
was no knowing how long the crowd would be content to remain mere
spectators. There was no doubt which way its sympathies lay. Bill, now
stripped of his coat and sketching out in a hoarse voice a scenario of
what he intended to do—knocking Mike down and stamping him into the
mud was one of the milder feats he promised to perform for the
entertainment of an indulgent audience—was plainly the popular
Psmith, though he did not show it, was more than a little
Mike, having more to occupy his mind in the immediate present, was
not anxious concerning the future. He had the great advantage over
Psmith of having lost his temper. Psmith could look on the situation as
a whole, and count the risks and possibilities. Mike could only see
Bill shuffling towards him with his head down and shoulders bunched.
'Gow it, Bill!' said someone.
'Pliy up, the Arsenal!' urged a voice on the outskirts of the crowd.
A chorus of encouragement from kind friends in front: 'Step up,
And Bill stepped.
16. Further Developments
Bill (surname unknown) was not one of your ultra-scientific
fighters. He did not favour the American crouch and the artistic feint.
He had a style wholly his own. It seemed to have been modelled partly
on a tortoise and partly on a windmill. His head he appeared to be
trying to conceal between his shoulders, and he whirled his arms
alternately in circular sweeps.
Mike, on the other hand, stood upright and hit straight, with the
result that he hurt his knuckles very much on his opponent's skull,
without seeming to disturb the latter to any great extent. In the
process he received one of the windmill swings on the left ear. The
crowd, strong pro-Billites, raised a cheer.
This maddened Mike. He assumed the offensive. Bill, satisfied for
the moment with his success, had stepped back, and was indulging in
some fancy sparring, when Mike sprang upon him like a panther. They
clinched, and Mike, who had got the under grip, hurled Bill forcibly
against a stout man who looked like a publican. The two fell in a heap,
At the same time Bill's friends joined in.
The first intimation Mike had of this was a violent blow across the
shoulders with a walking-stick. Even if he had been wearing his
overcoat, the blow would have hurt. As he was in his jacket it hurt
more than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He leapt up
with a yell, but Psmith was there before him. Mike saw his assailant
lift the stick again, and then collapse as the old Etonian's right took
him under the chin.
He darted to Psmith's side.
'This is no place for us,' observed the latter sadly. 'Shift ho, I
think. Come on.'
They dashed simultaneously for the spot where the crowd was
thinnest. The ring which had formed round Mike and Bill had broken up
as the result of the intervention of Bill's allies, and at the spot for
which they ran only two men were standing. And these had apparently
made up their minds that neutrality was the best policy, for they made
no movement to stop them. Psmith and Mike charged through the gap, and
raced for the road.
The suddenness of the move gave them just the start they needed.
Mike looked over his shoulder. The crowd, to a man, seemed to be
following. Bill, excavated from beneath the publican, led the field.
Lying a good second came a band of three, and after them the rest in a
They reached the road in this order.
Some fifty yards down the road was a stationary tram. In the
ordinary course of things it would probably have moved on long before
Psmith and Mike could have got to it; but the conductor, a man with
sporting blood in him, seeing what appeared to be the finish of some
Marathon Race, refrained from giving the signal, and moved out into the
road to observe events more clearly, at the same time calling to the
driver, who joined him. Passengers on the roof stood up to get a good
view. There was some cheering.
Psmith and Mike reached the tram ten yards to the good; and, if it
had been ready to start then, all would have been well. But Bill and
his friends had arrived while the driver and conductor were both out in
The affair now began to resemble the doings of Horatius on the
bridge. Psmith and Mike turned to bay on the platform at the foot of
the tram steps. Bill, leading by three yards, sprang on to it, grabbed
Mike, and fell with him on to the road. Psmith, descending with a
dignity somewhat lessened by the fact that his hat was on the side of
his head, was in time to engage the runners-up.
Psmith, as pugilist, lacked something of the calm majesty which
characterized him in the more peaceful moments of life, but he was
undoubtedly effective. Nature had given him an enormous reach and a
lightness on his feet remarkable in one of his size; and at some time
in his career he appeared to have learned how to use his hands. The
first of the three runners, the walking-stick manipulator, had the
misfortune to charge straight into the old Etonian's left. It was a
well-timed blow, and the force of it, added to the speed at which the
victim was running, sent him on to the pavement, where he spun round
and sat down. In the subsequent proceedings he took no part.
The other two attacked Psmith simultaneously, one on each side. In
doing so, the one on the left tripped over Mike and Bill, who were
still in the process of sorting themselves out, and fell, leaving
Psmith free to attend to the other. He was a tall, weedy youth. His
conspicuous features were a long nose and a light yellow waistcoat.
Psmith hit him on the former with his left and on the latter with his
right. The long youth emitted a gurgle, and collided with Bill, who had
wrenched himself free from Mike and staggered to his feet. Bill, having
received a second blow in the eye during the course of his interview on
the road with Mike, was not feeling himself. Mistaking the other for an
enemy, he proceeded to smite him in the parts about the jaw. He had
just upset him, when a stern official voice observed, ''Ere, now,
what's all this?'
There is no more unfailing corrective to a scene of strife than the
'What's all this?' of the London policeman. Bill abandoned his
intention of stamping on the prostrate one, and the latter, sitting up,
blinked and was silent.
'What's all this?' asked the policeman again. Psmith, adjusting his
hat at the correct angle again, undertook the explanations.
'A distressing scene, officer,' he said. 'A case of that unbridled
brawling which is, alas, but too common in our London streets. These
two, possibly till now the closest friends, fall out over some point,
probably of the most trivial nature, and what happens? They brawl.
'He 'it me,' said the long youth, dabbing at his face with a
handkerchief and pointing an accusing finger at Psmith, who regarded
him through his eyeglass with a look in which pity and censure were
Bill, meanwhile, circling round restlessly, in the apparent hope of
getting past the Law and having another encounter with Mike, expressed
himself in a stream of language which drew stern reproof from the
'You 'op it,' concluded the man in blue. 'That's what you do. You
'I should,' said Psmith kindly. 'The officer is speaking in your
best interests. A man of taste and discernment, he knows what is best.
His advice is good, and should be followed.'
The constable seemed to notice Psmith for the first time. He turned
and stared at him. Psmith's praise had not had the effect of softening
him. His look was one of suspicion.
'And what might you have been up to?' he inquired coldly.
'This man says you hit him.'
Psmith waved the matter aside.
'Purely in self-defence,' he said, 'purely in self-defence. What
else could the man of spirit do? A mere tap to discourage an aggressive
The policeman stood silent, weighing matters in the balance, lie
produced a notebook and sucked his pencil. Then he called the conductor
of the tram as a witness.
'A brainy and admirable step,' said Psmith, approvingly. 'This
rugged, honest man, all unused to verbal subtleties, shall give us his
plain account of what happened. After which, as I presume this
tram—little as I know of the habits of trams—has got to go somewhere
today, I would suggest that we all separated and moved on.'
He took two half-crowns from his pocket, and began to clink them
meditatively together. A slight softening of the frigidity of the
constable's manner became noticeable. There was a milder beam in the
eyes which gazed into Psmith's.
Nor did the conductor seem altogether uninfluenced by the sight.
The conductor deposed that he had bin on the point of pushing on,
seeing as how he'd hung abart long enough, when he see'd them two
gents, the long 'un with the heye-glass (Psmith bowed) and t'other 'un,
a-legging of it dahn the road towards him, with the other blokes
pelting after 'em. He added that, when they reached the trem, the two
gents had got aboard, and was then set upon by the blokes. And after
that, he concluded, well, there was a bit of a scrap, and that's how it
'Lucidly and excellently put,' said Psmith. 'That is just how it
was. Comrade Jackson, I fancy we leave the court without a stain on our
characters. We win through. Er—constable, we have given you a great
deal of trouble. Possibly—?'
'Thank you, sir.' There was a musical clinking. 'Now then, all of
you, you 'op it. You're all bin poking your noses in 'ere long enough.
Pop off. Get on with that tram, conductor.' Psmith and Mike settled
themselves in a seat on the roof. When the conductor came along, Psmith
gave him half a crown, and asked after his wife and the little ones at
home. The conductor thanked goodness that he was a bachelor, punched
the tickets, and retired.
'Subject for a historical picture,' said Psmith. 'Wounded leaving
the field after the Battle of Clapham Common. How are your injuries,
'My back's hurting like blazes,' said Mike. 'And my ear's all sore
where that chap got me. Anything the matter with you?'
'Physically,' said Psmith, 'no. Spiritually much. Do you realize,
Comrade Jackson, the thing that has happened? I am riding in a tram. I,
Psmith, have paid a penny for a ticket on a tram. If this should get
about the clubs! I tell you, Comrade Jackson, no such crisis has ever
occurred before in the course of my career.'
'You can always get off, you know,' said Mike.
'He thinks of everything,' said Psmith, admiringly. 'You have
touched the spot with an unerring finger. Let us descend. I observe in
the distance a cab. That looks to me more the sort of thing we want.
Let us go and parley with the driver.'
17. Sunday Supper
The cab took them back to the flat, at considerable expense, and
Psmith requested Mike to make tea, a performance in which he himself
was interested purely as a spectator. He had views on the subject of
tea-making which he liked to expound from an armchair or sofa, but he
never got further than this. Mike, his back throbbing dully from the
blow he had received, and feeling more than a little sore all over,
prepared the Etna, fetched the milk, and finally produced the finished
Psmith sipped meditatively.
'How pleasant,' he said, 'after strife is rest. We shouldn't have
appreciated this simple cup of tea had our sensibilities remained
unstirred this afternoon. We can now sit at our ease, like warriors
after the fray, till the time comes for setting out to Comrade Waller's
Mike looked up.
'What! You don't mean to say you're going to sweat out to Clapham
'Undoubtedly. Comrade Waller is expecting us to supper.'
'What absolute rot! We can't fag back there.'
'Noblesse oblige. The cry has gone round the Waller household,
“Jackson and Psmith are coming to supper,” and we cannot disappoint
them now. Already the fatted blanc-mange has been killed, and the table
creaks beneath what's left of the midday beef. We must be there;
besides, don't you want to see how the poor man is? Probably we shall
find him in the act of emitting his last breath. I expect he was
lynched by the enthusiastic mob.'
'Not much,' grinned Mike. 'They were too busy with us. All right,
I'll come if you really want me to, but it's awful rot.'
One of the many things Mike could never understand in Psmith was his
fondness for getting into atmospheres that were not his own. He would
go out of his way to do this. Mike, like most boys of his age, was
never really happy and at his ease except in the presence of those of
his own years and class. Psmith, on the contrary, seemed to be bored by
them, and infinitely preferred talking to somebody who lived in quite
another world. Mike was not a snob. He simply had not the ability to be
at his ease with people in another class from his own. He did not know
what to talk to them about, unless they were cricket professionals.
With them he was never at a loss.
But Psmith was different. He could get on with anyone. He seemed to
have the gift of entering into their minds and seeing things from their
point of view.
As regarded Mr Waller, Mike liked him personally, and was prepared,
as we have seen, to undertake considerable risks in his defence; but he
loathed with all his heart and soul the idea of supper at his house. He
knew that he would have nothing to say. Whereas Psmith gave him the
impression of looking forward to the thing as a treat.
* * * * *
The house where Mr Waller lived was one of a row of semi-detached
villas on the north side of the Common. The door was opened to them by
their host himself. So far from looking battered and emitting last
breaths, he appeared particularly spruce. He had just returned from
Church, and was still wearing his gloves and tall hat. He squeaked with
surprise when he saw who were standing on the mat.
'Why, dear me, dear me,' he said. 'Here you are! I have been
wondering what had happened to you. I was afraid that you might have
been seriously hurt. I was afraid those ruffians might have injured
you. When last I saw you, you were being—'
'Chivvied,' interposed Psmith, with dignified melancholy. 'Do not
let us try to wrap the fact up in pleasant words. We were being
chivvied. We were legging it with the infuriated mob at our heels. An
ignominious position for a Shropshire Psmith, but, after all, Napoleon
did the same.'
'But what happened? I could not see. I only know that quite suddenly
the people seemed to stop listening to me, and all gathered round you
and Jackson. And then I saw that Jackson was engaged in a fight with a
'Comrade Jackson, I imagine, having heard a great deal about all men
being equal, was anxious to test the theory, and see whether Comrade
Bill was as good a man as he was. The experiment was broken off
prematurely, but I personally should be inclined to say that Comrade
Jackson had a shade the better of the exchanges.'
Mr Waller looked with interest at Mike, who shuffled and felt
awkward. He was hoping that Psmith would say nothing about the reason
of his engaging Bill in combat. He had an uneasy feeling that Mr
Waller's gratitude would be effusive and overpowering, and he did not
wish to pose as the brave young hero. There are moments when one does
not feel equal to the role.
Fortunately, before Mr Waller had time to ask any further questions,
the supper-bell sounded, and they went into the dining-room.
Sunday supper, unless done on a large and informal scale, is
probably the most depressing meal in existence. There is a chill
discomfort in the round of beef, an icy severity about the open jam
tart. The blancmange shivers miserably.
Spirituous liquor helps to counteract the influence of these things,
and so does exhilarating conversation. Unfortunately, at Mr Waller's
table there was neither. The cashier's views on temperance were not
merely for the platform; they extended to the home. And the company was
not of the exhilarating sort. Besides Psmith and Mike and their host,
there were four people present—Comrade Prebble, the orator; a young
man of the name of Richards; Mr Waller's niece, answering to the name
of Ada, who was engaged to Mr Richards; and Edward.
Edward was Mr Waller's son. He was ten years old, wore a very tight
Eton suit, and had the peculiarly loathsome expression which a snub
nose sometimes gives to the young.
It would have been plain to the most casual observer that Mr Waller
was fond and proud of his son. The cashier was a widower, and after
five minutes' acquaintance with Edward, Mike felt strongly that Mrs
Waller was the lucky one. Edward sat next to Mike, and showed a
tendency to concentrate his conversation on him. Psmith, at the
opposite end of the table, beamed in a fatherly manner upon the pair
through his eyeglass.
Mike got on with small girls reasonably well. He preferred them at a
distance, but, if cornered by them, could put up a fairly good show.
Small boys, however, filled him with a sort of frozen horror. It was
his view that a boy should not be exhibited publicly until he reached
an age when he might be in the running for some sort of colours at a
Edward was one of those well-informed small boys. He opened on Mike
with the first mouthful.
'Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles?' he inquired.
'What?' said Mike coldly.
'Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles? I do.'
'Oh?' said Mike.
'Yes. Do you know the capital of Madagascar?'
Mike, as crimson as the beef he was attacking, said he did not.
'Oh?' said Mike.
'Who was the first king—'
'You mustn't worry Mr Jackson, Teddy,' said Mr Waller, with a touch
of pride in his voice, as who should say 'There are not many boys of
his age, I can tell you, who could worry you with questions like
'No, no, he likes it,' said Psmith, unnecessarily. 'He likes it. I
always hold that much may be learned by casual chit-chat across the
dinner-table. I owe much of my own grasp of—'
'I bet you don't know what's the capital of Madagascar,'
interrupted Mike rudely.
'I do,' said Edward. 'I can tell you the kings of Israel?' he added,
turning to Mike. He seemed to have no curiosity as to the extent of
Psmith's knowledge. Mike's appeared to fascinate him.
Mike helped himself to beetroot in moody silence.
His mouth was full when Comrade Prebble asked him a question.
Comrade Prebble, as has been pointed out in an earlier part of the
narrative, was a good chap, but had no roof to his mouth.
'I beg your pardon?' said Mike.
Comrade Prebble repeated his observation. Mike looked helplessly at
Psmith, but Psmith's eyes were on his plate.
Mike felt he must venture on some answer.
'No,' he said decidedly.
Comrade Prebble seemed slightly taken aback. There was an awkward
pause. Then Mr Waller, for whom his fellow Socialist's methods of
conversation held no mysteries, interpreted.
'The mustard, Prebble? Yes, yes. Would you mind passing Prebble the
mustard, Mr Jackson?'
'Oh, sorry,' gasped Mike, and, reaching out, upset the water-jug
into the open jam-tart.
Through the black mist which rose before his eyes as he leaped to
his feet and stammered apologies came the dispassionate voice of Master
Edward Waller reminding him that mustard was first introduced into Peru
His host was all courtesy and consideration. He passed the matter
off genially. But life can never be quite the same after you have upset
a water-jug into an open jam-tart at the table of a comparative
stranger. Mike's nerve had gone. He ate on, but he was a broken man.
At the other end of the table it became gradually apparent that
things were not going on altogether as they should have done. There was
a sort of bleakness in the atmosphere. Young Mr Richards was looking
like a stuffed fish, and the face of Mr Waller's niece was cold and
'Why, come, come, Ada,' said Mr Waller, breezily, 'what's the
matter? You're eating nothing. What's George been saying to you?' he
'Thank you, uncle Robert,' replied Ada precisely, 'there's nothing
the matter. Nothing that Mr Richards can say to me can upset me.'
'Mr Richards!' echoed Mr Waller in astonishment. How was he to know
that, during the walk back from church, the world had been transformed,
George had become Mr Richards, and all was over?
'I assure you, Ada—' began that unfortunate young man. Ada turned a
frigid shoulder towards him.
'Come, come,' said Mr Waller disturbed. 'What's all this? What's all
His niece burst into tears and left the room.
If there is anything more embarrassing to a guest than a family row,
we have yet to hear of it. Mike, scarlet to the extreme edges of his
ears, concentrated himself on his plate. Comrade Prebble made a great
many remarks, which were probably illuminating, if they could have been
understood. Mr Waller looked, astonished, at Mr Richards. Mr Richards,
pink but dogged, loosened his collar, but said nothing. Psmith, leaning
forward, asked Master Edward Waller his opinion on the Licensing Bill.
'We happened to have a word or two,' said Mr Richards at length, 'on
the way home from church on the subject of Women's Suffrage.'
'That fatal topic!' murmured Psmith.
'In Australia—' began Master Edward Waller.
'I was rayther—well, rayther facetious about it,' continued Mr
Psmith clicked his tongue sympathetically.
'In Australia—' said Edward.
'I went talking on, laughing and joking, when all of a sudden she
flew out at me. How was I to know she was 'eart and soul in the
movement? You never told me,' he added accusingly to his host.
'In Australia—' said Edward.
'I'll go and try and get her round. How was I to know?'
Mr Richards thrust back his chair and bounded from the room.
'Now, iawinyaw, iear oiler—' said Comrade Prebble judicially, but
'How very disturbing!' said Mr Waller. 'I am so sorry that this
should have happened. Ada is such a touchy, sensitive girl. She—'
'In Australia,' said Edward in even tones, 'they've got
Women's Suffrage already. Did you know that?' he said to Mike.
Mike made no answer. His eyes were fixed on his plate. A bead of
perspiration began to roll down his forehead. If his feelings could
have been ascertained at that moment, they would have been summed up in
the words, 'Death, where is thy sting?'
18. Psmith Makes a Discovery
'Women,' said Psmith, helping himself to trifle, and speaking with
the air of one launched upon his special subject, 'are, one must
recollect, like—like—er, well, in fact, just so. Passing on lightly
from that conclusion, let us turn for a moment to the Rights of
Property, in connection with which Comrade Prebble and yourself had so
much that was interesting to say this afternoon. Perhaps you'—he bowed
in Comrade Prebble's direction—'would resume, for the benefit of
Comrade Jackson—a novice in the Cause, but earnest—your very lucid—'
Comrade Prebble beamed, and took the floor. Mike began to realize
that, till now, he had never known what boredom meant. There had been
moments in his life which had been less interesting than other moments,
but nothing to touch this for agony. Comrade Prebble's address streamed
on like water rushing over a weir. Every now and then there was a word
or two which was recognizable, but this happened so rarely that it
amounted to little. Sometimes Mr Waller would interject a remark, but
not often. He seemed to be of the opinion that Comrade Prebble's was
the master mind and that to add anything to his views would be in the
nature of painting the lily and gilding the refined gold. Mike himself
said nothing. Psmith and Edward were equally silent. The former sat
like one in a trance, thinking his own thoughts, while Edward, who,
prospecting on the sideboard, had located a rich biscuit-mine, was too
occupied for speech.
After about twenty minutes, during which Mike's discomfort changed
to a dull resignation, Mr Waller suggested a move to the drawing-room,
where Ada, he said, would play some hymns.
The prospect did not dazzle Mike, but any change, he thought, must
be for the better. He had sat staring at the ruin of the blancmange so
long that it had begun to hypnotize him. Also, the move had the
excellent result of eliminating the snub-nosed Edward, who was sent to
bed. His last words were in the form of a question, addressed to Mike,
on the subject of the hypotenuse and the square upon the same.
'A remarkably intelligent boy,' said Psmith. 'You must let him come
to tea at our flat one day. I may not be in myself—I have many duties
which keep me away—but Comrade Jackson is sure to be there, and will
be delighted to chat with him.'
On the way upstairs Mike tried to get Psmith to himself for a moment
to suggest the advisability of an early departure; but Psmith was in
close conversation with his host. Mike was left to Comrade Prebble,
who, apparently, had only touched the fringe of his subject in his
lecture in the dining-room.
When Mr Waller had predicted hymns in the drawing-room, he had been
too sanguine (or too pessimistic). Of Ada, when they arrived, there
were no signs. It seemed that she had gone straight to bed. Young Mr
Richards was sitting on the sofa, moodily turning the leaves of a
photograph album, which contained portraits of Master Edward Waller in
geometrically progressing degrees of repulsiveness—here, in frocks,
looking like a gargoyle; there, in sailor suit, looking like nothing on
earth. The inspection of these was obviously deepening Mr Richards'
gloom, but he proceeded doggedly with it.
Comrade Prebble backed the reluctant Mike into a corner, and, like
the Ancient Mariner, held him with a glittering eye. Psmith and Mr
Waller, in the opposite corner, were looking at something with their
heads close together. Mike definitely abandoned all hope of a rescue
from Psmith, and tried to buoy himself up with the reflection that this
could not last for ever.
Hours seemed to pass, and then at last he heard Psmith's voice
saying good-bye to his host.
He sprang to his feet. Comrade Prebble was in the middle of a
sentence, but this was no time for polished courtesy. He felt that he
must get away, and at once. 'I fear,' Psmith was saying, 'that we must
tear ourselves away. We have greatly enjoyed our evening. You must look
us up at our flat one day, and bring Comrade Prebble. If I am not in,
Comrade Jackson is certain to be, and he will be more than delighted to
hear Comrade Prebble speak further on the subject of which he is such a
master.' Comrade Prebble was understood to say that he would certainly
come. Mr Waller beamed. Mr Richards, still steeped in gloom, shook
hands in silence.
Out in the road, with the front door shut behind them, Mike spoke
'Look here, Smith,' he said definitely, 'if being your confidential
secretary and adviser is going to let me in for any more of that sort
of thing, you can jolly well accept my resignation.'
'The orgy was not to your taste?' said Psmith sympathetically.
Mike laughed. One of those short, hollow, bitter laughs.
'I am at a loss, Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith, 'to understand your
attitude. You fed sumptuously. You had fun with the crockery—that
knockabout act of yours with the water-jug was alone worth the
money—and you had the advantage of listening to the views of a master
of his subject. What more do you want?'
'What on earth did you land me with that man Prebble for?'
'Land you! Why, you courted his society. I had practically to drag
you away from him. When I got up to say good-bye, you were listening to
him with bulging eyes. I never saw such a picture of rapt attention. Do
you mean to tell me, Comrade Jackson, that your appearance belied you,
that you were not interested? Well, well. How we misread our fellow
'I think you might have come and lent a hand with Prebble. It was a
'I was too absorbed with Comrade Waller. We were talking of things
of vital moment. However, the night is yet young. We will take this
cab, wend our way to the West, seek a cafe, and cheer ourselves with
Arrived at a cafe whose window appeared to be a sort of museum of
every kind of German sausage, they took possession of a vacant table
and ordered coffee. Mike soon found himself soothed by his bright
surroundings, and gradually his impressions of blancmange, Edward, and
Comrade Prebble faded from his mind. Psmith, meanwhile, was preserving
an unusual silence, being deep in a large square book of the sort in
which Press cuttings are pasted. As Psmith scanned its contents a
curious smile lit up his face. His reflections seemed to be of an
'Hullo,' said Mike, 'what have you got hold of there? Where did you
'Comrade Waller very kindly lent it to me. He showed it to me after
supper, knowing how enthusiastically I was attached to the Cause. Had
you been less tensely wrapped up in Comrade Prebble's conversation, I
would have desired you to step across and join us. However, you now
have your opportunity.'
'But what is it?' asked Mike.
'It is the record of the meetings of the Tulse Hill Parliament,'
said Psmith impressively. 'A faithful record of all they said, all the
votes of confidence they passed in the Government, and also all the
nasty knocks they gave it from time to time.'
'What on earth's the Tulse Hill Parliament?'
'It is, alas,' said Psmith in a grave, sad voice, 'no more. In life
it was beautiful, but now it has done the Tom Bowling act. It has gone
aloft. We are dealing, Comrade Jackson, not with the live, vivid
present, but with the far-off, rusty past. And yet, in a way, there is
a touch of the live, vivid present mixed up in it.'
'I don't know what the dickens you're talking about,' said Mike.
'Let's have a look, anyway.'
Psmith handed him the volume, and, leaning back, sipped his coffee,
and watched him. At first Mike's face was bored and blank, but suddenly
an interested look came into it.
'Aha!' said Psmith.
'Who's Bickersdyke? Anything to do with our Bickersdyke?'
'No other than our genial friend himself.'
Mike turned the pages, reading a line or two on each.
'Hullo!' he said, chuckling. 'He lets himself go a bit, doesn't he!'
'He does,' acknowledged Psmith. 'A fiery, passionate nature, that of
'He's simply cursing the Government here. Giving them frightful
'I noticed the fact myself.'
'But what's it all about?'
'As far as I can glean from Comrade Waller,' said Psmith, 'about
twenty years ago, when he and Comrade Bickersdyke worked hand-in-hand
as fellow clerks at the New Asiatic, they were both members of the
Tulse Hill Parliament, that powerful institution. At that time Comrade
Bickersdyke was as fruity a Socialist as Comrade Waller is now. Only,
apparently, as he began to get on a bit in the world, he altered his
views to some extent as regards the iniquity of freezing on to a decent
share of the doubloons. And that, you see, is where the dim and rusty
past begins to get mixed up with the live, vivid present. If any
tactless person were to publish those very able speeches made by
Comrade Bickersdyke when a bulwark of the Tulse Hill Parliament, our
revered chief would be more or less caught bending, if I may employ the
expression, as regards his chances of getting in as Unionist candidate
at Kenningford. You follow me, Watson? I rather fancy the light-hearted
electors of Kenningford, from what I have seen of their rather acute
sense of humour, would be, as it were, all over it. It would be very,
very trying for Comrade Bickersdyke if these speeches of his were to
'You aren't going to—!'
'I shall do nothing rashly. I shall merely place this handsome
volume among my treasured books. I shall add it to my “Books that have
helped me” series. Because I fancy that, in an emergency, it may not be
at all a bad thing to have about me. And now,' he concluded, 'as the
hour is getting late, perhaps we had better be shoving off for home.'
19. The Illness of Edward
Life in a bank is at its pleasantest in the winter. When all the
world outside is dark and damp and cold, the light and warmth of the
place are comforting. There is a pleasant air of solidity about the
interior of a bank. The green shaded lamps look cosy. And, the outside
world offering so few attractions, the worker, perched on his stool,
feels that he is not so badly off after all. It is when the days are
long and the sun beats hot on the pavement, and everything shouts to
him how splendid it is out in the country, that he begins to grow
Mike, except for a fortnight at the beginning of his career in the
New Asiatic Bank, had not had to stand the test of sunshine. At
present, the weather being cold and dismal, he was almost entirely
contented. Now that he had got into the swing of his work, the days
passed very quickly; and with his life after office-hours he had no
fault to find at all.
His life was very regular. He would arrive in the morning just in
time to sign his name in the attendance-book before it was removed to
the accountant's room. That was at ten o'clock. From ten to eleven he
would potter. There was nothing going on at that time in his
department, and Mr Waller seemed to take it for granted that he should
stroll off to the Postage Department and talk to Psmith, who had
generally some fresh grievance against the ring-wearing Bristow to air.
From eleven to half past twelve he would put in a little gentle work.
Lunch, unless there was a rush of business or Mr Waller happened to
suffer from a spasm of conscientiousness, could be spun out from half
past twelve to two. More work from two till half past three. From half
past three till half past four tea in the tearoom, with a novel. And
from half past four till five either a little more work or more
pottering, according to whether there was any work to do or not. It was
by no means an unpleasant mode of spending a late January day.
Then there was no doubt that it was an interesting little community,
that of the New Asiatic Bank. The curiously amateurish nature of the
institution lent a certain air of light-heartedness to the place. It
was not like one of those banks whose London office is their main
office, where stern business is everything and a man becomes a mere
machine for getting through a certain amount of routine work. The
employees of the New Asiatic Bank, having plenty of time on their
hands, were able to retain their individuality. They had leisure to
think of other things besides their work. Indeed, they had so much
leisure that it is a wonder they thought of their work at all.
The place was full of quaint characters. There was West, who had
been requested to leave Haileybury owing to his habit of borrowing
horses and attending meets in the neighbourhood, the same being always
out of bounds and necessitating a complete disregard of the rules
respecting evening chapel and lock-up. He was a small, dried-up youth,
with black hair plastered down on his head. He went about his duties in
a costume which suggested the sportsman of the comic papers.
There was also Hignett, who added to the meagre salary allowed him
by the bank by singing comic songs at the minor music halls. He
confided to Mike his intention of leaving the bank as soon as he had
made a name, and taking seriously to the business. He told him that he
had knocked them at the Bedford the week before, and in support of the
statement showed him a cutting from the Era, in which the writer said
that 'Other acceptable turns were the Bounding Zouaves, Steingruber's
Dogs, and Arthur Hignett.' Mike wished him luck.
And there was Raymond who dabbled in journalism and was the author
of 'Straight Talks to Housewives' in Trifles, under the
pseudonym of 'Lady Gussie'; Wragge, who believed that the earth was
flat, and addressed meetings on the subject in Hyde Park on Sundays;
and many others, all interesting to talk to of a morning when work was
slack and time had to be filled in.
Mike found himself, by degrees, growing quite attached to the New
One morning, early in February, he noticed a curious change in Mr
Waller. The head of the Cash Department was, as a rule, mildly cheerful
on arrival, and apt (excessively, Mike thought, though he always
listened with polite interest) to relate the most recent sayings and
doings of his snub-nosed son, Edward. No action of this young prodigy
was withheld from Mike. He had heard, on different occasions, how he
had won a prize at his school for General Information (which Mike could
well believe); how he had trapped young Mr Richards, now happily
reconciled to Ada, with an ingenious verbal catch; and how he had made
a sequence of diverting puns on the name of the new curate, during the
course of that cleric's first Sunday afternoon visit.
On this particular day, however, the cashier was silent and
absent-minded. He answered Mike's good-morning mechanically, and
sitting down at his desk, stared blankly across the building. There was
a curiously grey, tired look on his face.
Mike could not make it out. He did not like to ask if there was
anything the matter. Mr Waller's face had the unreasonable effect on
him of making him feel shy and awkward. Anything in the nature of
sorrow always dried Mike up and robbed him of the power of speech.
Being naturally sympathetic, he had raged inwardly in many a crisis at
this devil of dumb awkwardness which possessed him and prevented him
from putting his sympathy into words. He had always envied the cooing
readiness of the hero on the stage when anyone was in trouble. He
wondered whether he would ever acquire that knack of pouring out a
limpid stream of soothing words on such occasions. At present he could
get no farther than a scowl and an almost offensive gruffness.
The happy thought struck him of consulting Psmith. It was his hour
for pottering, so he pottered round to the Postage Department, where he
found the old Etonian eyeing with disfavour a new satin tie which
Bristow was wearing that morning for the first time.
'I say, Smith,' he said, 'I want to speak to you for a second.'
Psmith rose. Mike led the way to a quiet corner of the Telegrams
'I tell you, Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith, 'I am hard pressed. The
fight is beginning to be too much for me. After a grim struggle, after
days of unremitting toil, I succeeded yesterday in inducing the man
Bristow to abandon that rainbow waistcoat of his. Today I enter the
building, blythe and buoyant, worn, of course, from the long struggle,
but seeing with aching eyes the dawn of another, better era, and there
is Comrade Bristow in a satin tie. It's hard, Comrade Jackson, it's
hard, I tell you.'
'Look here, Smith,' said Mike, 'I wish you'd go round to the Cash
and find out what's up with old Waller. He's got the hump about
something. He's sitting there looking absolutely fed up with things. I
hope there's nothing up. He's not a bad sort. It would be rot if
anything rotten's happened.'
Psmith began to display a gentle interest.
'So other people have troubles as well as myself,' he murmured
musingly. 'I had almost forgotten that. Comrade Waller's misfortunes
cannot but be trivial compared with mine, but possibly it will be as
well to ascertain their nature. I will reel round and make inquiries.'
'Good man,' said Mike. 'I'll wait here.'
Psmith departed, and returned, ten minutes later, looking more
serious than when he had left.
'His kid's ill, poor chap,' he said briefly. 'Pretty badly too, from
what I can gather. Pneumonia. Waller was up all night. He oughtn't to
be here at all today. He doesn't know what he's doing half the time.
He's absolutely fagged out. Look here, you'd better nip back and do as
much of the work as you can. I shouldn't talk to him much if I were
you. Buck along.'
Mike went. Mr Waller was still sitting staring out across the aisle.
There was something more than a little gruesome in the sight of him. He
wore a crushed, beaten look, as if all the life and fight had gone out
of him. A customer came to the desk to cash a cheque. The cashier
shovelled the money to him under the bars with the air of one whose
mind is elsewhere. Mike could guess what he was feeling, and what he
was thinking about. The fact that the snub-nosed Edward was, without
exception, the most repulsive small boy he had ever met in this world,
where repulsive small boys crowd and jostle one another, did not
interfere with his appreciation of the cashier's state of mind. Mike's
was essentially a sympathetic character. He had the gift of intuitive
understanding, where people of whom he was fond were concerned. It was
this which drew to him those who had intelligence enough to see beyond
his sometimes rather forbidding manner, and to realize that his blunt
speech was largely due to shyness. In spite of his prejudice against
Edward, he could put himself into Mr Waller's place, and see the thing
from his point of view.
Psmith's injunction to him not to talk much was unnecessary. Mike,
as always, was rendered utterly dumb by the sight of suffering. He sat
at his desk, occupying himself as best he could with the driblets of
work which came to him.
Mr Waller's silence and absentness continued unchanged. The habit of
years had made his work mechanical. Probably few of the customers who
came to cash cheques suspected that there was anything the matter with
the man who paid them their money. After all, most people look on the
cashier of a bank as a sort of human slot-machine. You put in your
cheque, and out comes money. It is no affair of yours whether life is
treating the machine well or ill that day.
The hours dragged slowly by till five o'clock struck, and the
cashier, putting on his coat and hat, passed silently out through the
swing doors. He walked listlessly. He was evidently tired out.
Mike shut his ledger with a vicious bang, and went across to find
Psmith. He was glad the day was over.
20. Concerning a Cheque
Things never happen quite as one expects them to. Mike came to the
office next morning prepared for a repetition of the previous day. He
was amazed to find the cashier not merely cheerful, but even
exuberantly cheerful. Edward, it appeared, had rallied in the
afternoon, and, when his father had got home, had been out of danger.
He was now going along excellently, and had stumped Ada, who was
nursing him, with a question about the Thirty Years' War, only a few
minutes before his father had left to catch his train. The cashier was
overflowing with happiness and goodwill towards his species. He greeted
customers with bright remarks on the weather, and snappy views on the
leading events of the day: the former tinged with optimism, the latter
full of a gentle spirit of toleration. His attitude towards the latest
actions of His Majesty's Government was that of one who felt that,
after all, there was probably some good even in the vilest of his
fellow creatures, if one could only find it.
Altogether, the cloud had lifted from the Cash Department. All was
joy, jollity, and song.
'The attitude of Comrade Waller,' said Psmith, on being informed of
the change, 'is reassuring. I may now think of my own troubles. Comrade
Bristow has blown into the office today in patent leather boots with
white kid uppers, as I believe the technical term is. Add to that the
fact that he is still wearing the satin tie, the waistcoat, and the
ring, and you will understand why I have definitely decided this
morning to abandon all hope of his reform. Henceforth my services, for
what they are worth, are at the disposal of Comrade Bickersdyke. My
time from now onward is his. He shall have the full educative value of
my exclusive attention. I give Comrade Bristow up. Made straight for
the corner flag, you understand,' he added, as Mr Rossiter emerged from
his lair, 'and centred, and Sandy Turnbull headed a beautiful goal. I
was just telling Jackson about the match against Blackburn Rovers,' he
said to Mr Rossiter.
'Just so, just so. But get on with your work, Smith. We are a little
behind-hand. I think perhaps it would be as well not to leave it just
'I will leap at it at once,' said Psmith cordially.
Mike went back to his department.
The day passed quickly. Mr Waller, in the intervals of work, talked
a good deal, mostly of Edward, his doings, his sayings, and his
prospects. The only thing that seemed to worry Mr Waller was the
problem of how to employ his son's almost superhuman talents to the
best advantage. Most of the goals towards which the average man strives
struck him as too unambitious for the prodigy.
By the end of the day Mike had had enough of Edward. He never wished
to hear the name again.
We do not claim originality for the statement that things never
happen quite as one expects them to. We repeat it now because of its
profound truth. The Edward's pneumonia episode having ended
satisfactorily (or, rather, being apparently certain to end
satisfactorily, for the invalid, though out of danger, was still in
bed), Mike looked forward to a series of days unbroken by any but the
minor troubles of life. For these he was prepared. What he did not
expect was any big calamity.
At the beginning of the day there were no signs of it. The sky was
blue and free from all suggestions of approaching thunderbolts. Mr
Waller, still chirpy, had nothing but good news of Edward. Mike went
for his morning stroll round the office feeling that things had settled
down and had made up their mind to run smoothly.
When he got back, barely half an hour later, the storm had burst.
There was no one in the department at the moment of his arrival; but
a few minutes later he saw Mr Waller come out of the manager's room,
and make his way down the aisle.
It was his walk which first gave any hint that something was wrong.
It was the same limp, crushed walk which Mike had seen when Edward's
safety still hung in the balance.
As Mr Waller came nearer, Mike saw that the cashier's face was
Mr Waller caught sight of him and quickened his pace.
'Jackson,' he said.
Mike came forward.
'Do you—remember—' he spoke slowly, and with an effort, 'do you
remember a cheque coming through the day before yesterday for a hundred
pounds, with Sir John Morrison's signature?'
'Yes. It came in the morning, rather late.'
Mike remembered the cheque perfectly well, owing to the amount. It
was the only three-figure cheque which had come across the counter
during the day. It had been presented just before the cashier had gone
out to lunch. He recollected the man who had presented it, a tallish
man with a beard. He had noticed him particularly because of the
contrast between his manner and that of the cashier. The former had
been so very cheery and breezy, the latter so dazed and silent.
'Why,' he said.
'It was a forgery,' muttered Mr Waller, sitting down heavily.
Mike could not take it in all at once. He was stunned. All he could
understand was that a far worse thing had happened than anything he
could have imagined.
'A forgery?' he said.
'A forgery. And a clumsy one. Oh it's hard. I should have seen it on
any other day but that. I could not have missed it. They showed me the
cheque in there just now. I could not believe that I had passed it. I
don't remember doing it. My mind was far away. I don't remember the
cheque or anything about it. Yet there it is.'
Once more Mike was tongue-tied. For the life of him he could not
think of anything to say. Surely, he thought, he could find
something in the shape of words to show his sympathy. But he could
find nothing that would not sound horribly stilted and cold. He sat
'Sir John is in there,' went on the cashier. 'He is furious. Mr
Bickersdyke, too. They are both furious. I shall be dismissed. I shall
lose my place. I shall be dismissed.' He was talking more to himself
than to Mike. It was dreadful to see him sitting there, all limp and
'I shall lose my place. Mr Bickersdyke has wanted to get rid of me
for a long time. He never liked me. I shall be dismissed. What can I
do? I'm an old man. I can't make another start. I am good for nothing.
Nobody will take an old man like me.'
His voice died away. There was a silence. Mike sat staring miserably
in front of him.
Then, quite suddenly, an idea came to him. The whole pressure of the
atmosphere seemed to lift. He saw a way out. It was a curious crooked
way, but at that moment it stretched clear and broad before him. He
felt lighthearted and excited, as if he were watching the development
of some interesting play at the theatre.
He got up, smiling.
The cashier did not notice the movement. Somebody had come in to
cash a cheque, and he was working mechanically.
Mike walked up the aisle to Mr Bickersdyke's room, and went in.
The manager was in his chair at the big table. Opposite him, facing
slightly sideways, was a small, round, very red-faced man. Mr
Bickersdyke was speaking as Mike entered.
'I can assure you, Sir John—' he was saying.
He looked up as the door opened.
'Well, Mr Jackson?'
Mike almost laughed. The situation was tickling him.
'Mr Waller has told me—' he began.
'I have already seen Mr Waller.'
'I know. He told me about the cheque. I came to explain.'
'Yes. He didn't cash it at all.'
'I don't understand you, Mr Jackson.'
'I was at the counter when it was brought in,' said Mike. 'I cashed
21. Psmith Makes Inquiries
Psmith, as was his habit of a morning when the fierce rush of his
commercial duties had abated somewhat, was leaning gracefully against
his desk, musing on many things, when he was aware that Bristow was
standing before him.
Focusing his attention with some reluctance upon this blot on the
horizon, he discovered that the exploiter of rainbow waistcoats and
satin ties was addressing him.
'I say, Smithy,' said Bristow. He spoke in rather an awed voice.
'Say on, Comrade Bristow,' said Psmith graciously. 'You have our
ear. You would seem to have something on your chest in addition to that
Neapolitan ice garment which, I regret to see, you still flaunt. If it
is one tithe as painful as that, you have my sympathy. Jerk it out,
'Jackson isn't half copping it from old Bick.'
'Isn't—? What exactly did you say?'
'He's getting it hot on the carpet.'
'You wish to indicate,' said Psmith, 'that there is some slight
disturbance, some passing breeze between Comrades Jackson and
'Breeze! Blooming hurricane, more like it. I was in Bick's room just
now with a letter to sign, and I tell you, the fur was flying all over
the bally shop. There was old Bick cursing for all he was worth, and a
little red-faced buffer puffing out his cheeks in an armchair.'
'We all have our hobbies,' said Psmith.
'Jackson wasn't saying much. He jolly well hadn't a chance. Old Bick
was shooting it out fourteen to the dozen.'
'I have been privileged,' said Psmith, 'to hear Comrade Bickersdyke
speak both in his sanctum and in public. He has, as you suggest, a
ready flow of speech. What, exactly was the cause of the turmoil?'
'I couldn't wait to hear. I was too jolly glad to get away. Old Bick
looked at me as if he could eat me, snatched the letter out of my hand,
signed it, and waved his hand at the door as a hint to hop it. Which I
jolly well did. He had started jawing Jackson again before I was out of
'While applauding his hustle,' said Psmith, 'I fear that I must take
official notice of this. Comrade Jackson is essentially a Sensitive
Plant, highly strung, neurotic. I cannot have his nervous system jolted
and disorganized in this manner, and his value as a confidential
secretary and adviser impaired, even though it be only temporarily. I
must look into this. I will go and see if the orgy is concluded. I will
hear what Comrade Jackson has to say on the matter. I shall not act
rashly, Comrade Bristow. If the man Bickersdyke is proved to have had
good grounds for his outbreak, he shall escape uncensured. I may even
look in on him and throw him a word of praise. But if I find, as I
suspect, that he has wronged Comrade Jackson, I shall be forced to
speak sharply to him.'
* * * * *
Mike had left the scene of battle by the time Psmith reached the
Cash Department, and was sitting at his desk in a somewhat dazed
condition, trying to clear his mind sufficiently to enable him to see
exactly how matters stood as concerned himself. He felt confused and
rattled. He had known, when he went to the manager's room to make his
statement, that there would be trouble. But, then, trouble is such an
elastic word. It embraces a hundred degrees of meaning. Mike had
expected sentence of dismissal, and he had got it. So far he had
nothing to complain of. But he had not expected it to come to him
riding high on the crest of a great, frothing wave of verbal
denunciation. Mr Bickersdyke, through constantly speaking in public,
had developed the habit of fluent denunciation to a remarkable extent.
He had thundered at Mike as if Mike had been his Majesty's Government
or the Encroaching Alien, or something of that sort. And that kind of
thing is a little overwhelming at short range. Mike's head was still
It continued to spin; but he never lost sight of the fact round
which it revolved, namely, that he had been dismissed from the service
of the bank. And for the first time he began to wonder what they would
say about this at home.
Up till now the matter had seemed entirely a personal one. He had
charged in to rescue the harassed cashier in precisely the same way as
that in which he had dashed in to save him from Bill, the
Stone-Flinging Scourge of Clapham Common. Mike's was one of those
direct, honest minds which are apt to concentrate themselves on the
crisis of the moment, and to leave the consequences out of the question
What would they say at home? That was the point.
Again, what could he do by way of earning a living? He did not know
much about the City and its ways, but he knew enough to understand that
summary dismissal from a bank is not the best recommendation one can
put forward in applying for another job. And if he did not get another
job in the City, what could he do? If it were only summer, he might get
taken on somewhere as a cricket professional. Cricket was his line. He
could earn his pay at that. But it was very far from being summer.
He had turned the problem over in his mind till his head ached, and
had eaten in the process one-third of a wooden penholder, when Psmith
'It has reached me,' said Psmith, 'that you and Comrade Bickersdyke
have been seen doing the Hackenschmidt-Gotch act on the floor. When my
informant left, he tells me, Comrade B. had got a half-Nelson on you,
and was biting pieces out of your ear. Is this so?'
Mike got up. Psmith was the man, he felt, to advise him in this
crisis. Psmith's was the mind to grapple with his Hard Case.
'Look here, Smith,' he said, 'I want to speak to you. I'm in a bit
of a hole, and perhaps you can tell me what to do. Let's go out and
have a cup of coffee, shall we? I can't tell you about it here.'
'An admirable suggestion,' said Psmith. 'Things in the Postage
Department are tolerably quiescent at present. Naturally I shall be
missed, if I go out. But my absence will not spell irretrievable ruin,
as it would at a period of greater commercial activity. Comrades
Rossiter and Bristow have studied my methods. They know how I like
things to be done. They are fully competent to conduct the business of
the department in my absence. Let us, as you say, scud forth. We will
go to a Mecca. Why so-called I do not know, nor, indeed, do I ever hope
to know. There we may obtain, at a price, a passable cup of coffee, and
you shall tell me your painful story.'
The Mecca, except for the curious aroma which pervades all Meccas,
was deserted. Psmith, moving a box of dominoes on to the next table,
'Dominoes,' he said, 'is one of the few manly sports which have
never had great attractions for me. A cousin of mine, who secured his
chess blue at Oxford, would, they tell me, have represented his
University in the dominoes match also, had he not unfortunately
dislocated the radius bone of his bazooka while training for it. Except
for him, there has been little dominoes talent in the Psmith family.
Let us merely talk. What of this slight brass-rag-parting to which I
alluded just now? Tell me all.'
He listened gravely while Mike related the incidents which had led
up to his confession and the results of the same. At the conclusion of
the narrative he sipped his coffee in silence for a moment.
'This habit of taking on to your shoulders the harvest of other
people's bloomers,' he said meditatively, 'is growing upon you, Comrade
Jackson. You must check it. It is like dram-drinking. You begin in a
small way by breaking school rules to extract Comrade Jellicoe (perhaps
the supremest of all the blitherers I have ever met) from a hole. If
you had stopped there, all might have been well. But the thing, once
started, fascinated you. Now you have landed yourself with a splash in
the very centre of the Oxo in order to do a good turn to Comrade
Waller. You must drop it, Comrade Jackson. When you were free and
without ties, it did not so much matter. But now that you are
confidential secretary and adviser to a Shropshire Psmith, the thing
must stop. Your secretarial duties must be paramount. Nothing must be
allowed to interfere with them. Yes. The thing must stop before it goes
'It seems to me,' said Mike, 'that it has gone too far. I've got the
sack. I don't know how much farther you want it to go.'
Psmith stirred his coffee before replying.
'True,' he said, 'things look perhaps a shade rocky just now, but
all is not yet lost. You must recollect that Comrade Bickersdyke spoke
in the heat of the moment. That generous temperament was stirred to its
depths. He did not pick his words. But calm will succeed storm, and we
may be able to do something yet. I have some little influence with
Comrade Bickersdyke. Wrongly, perhaps,' added Psmith modestly, 'he
thinks somewhat highly of my judgement. If he sees that I am opposed to
this step, he may possibly reconsider it. What Psmith thinks today, is
his motto, I shall think tomorrow. However, we shall see.'
'I bet we shall!' said Mike ruefully.
'There is, moreover,' continued Psmith, 'another aspect to the
affair. When you were being put through it, in Comrade Bickersdyke's
inimitably breezy manner, Sir John What's-his-name was, I am given to
understand, present. Naturally, to pacify the aggrieved bart., Comrade
B. had to lay it on regardless of expense. In America, as possibly you
are aware, there is a regular post of mistake-clerk, whose duty it is
to receive in the neck anything that happens to be coming along when
customers make complaints. He is hauled into the presence of the
foaming customer, cursed, and sacked. The customer goes away appeased.
The mistake-clerk, if the harangue has been unusually energetic,
applies for a rise of salary. Now, possibly, in your case—'
'In my case,' interrupted Mike, 'there was none of that rot.
Bickersdyke wasn't putting it on. He meant every word. Why, dash it
all, you know yourself he'd be only too glad to sack me, just to get
some of his own back with me.'
Psmith's eyes opened in pained surprise.
'Get some of his own back!' he repeated.
'Are you insinuating, Comrade Jackson, that my relations with
Comrade Bickersdyke are not of the most pleasant and agreeable nature
possible? How do these ideas get about? I yield to nobody in my respect
for our manager. I may have had occasion from time to time to correct
him in some trifling matter, but surely he is not the man to let such a
thing rankle? No! I prefer to think that Comrade Bickersdyke regards me
as his friend and well-wisher, and will lend a courteous ear to any
proposal I see fit to make. I hope shortly to be able to prove this to
you. I will discuss this little affair of the cheque with him at our
ease at the club, and I shall be surprised if we do not come to some
'Look here, Smith,' said Mike earnestly, 'for goodness' sake don't
go playing the goat. There's no earthly need for you to get lugged into
this business. Don't you worry about me. I shall be all right.'
'I think,' said Psmith, 'that you will—when I have chatted with
22. And Take Steps
On returning to the bank, Mike found Mr Waller in the grip of a
peculiarly varied set of mixed feelings. Shortly after Mike's departure
for the Mecca, the cashier had been summoned once more into the
Presence, and had there been informed that, as apparently he had not
been directly responsible for the gross piece of carelessness by which
the bank had suffered so considerable a loss (here Sir John puffed out
his cheeks like a meditative toad), the matter, as far as he was
concerned, was at an end. On the other hand—! Here Mr Waller was
hauled over the coals for Incredible Rashness in allowing a mere junior
subordinate to handle important tasks like the paying out of money, and
so on, till he felt raw all over. However, it was not dismissal. That
was the great thing. And his principal sensation was one of relief.
Mingled with the relief were sympathy for Mike, gratitude to him for
having given himself up so promptly, and a curiously dazed sensation,
as if somebody had been hitting him on the head with a bolster.
All of which emotions, taken simultaneously, had the effect of
rendering him completely dumb when he saw Mike. He felt that he did not
know what to say to him. And as Mike, for his part, simply wanted to be
let alone, and not compelled to talk, conversation was at something of
a standstill in the Cash Department.
After five minutes, it occurred to Mr Waller that perhaps the best
plan would be to interview Psmith. Psmith would know exactly how
matters stood. He could not ask Mike point-blank whether he had been
dismissed. But there was the probability that Psmith had been informed
and would pass on the information.
Psmith received the cashier with a dignified kindliness.
'Oh, er, Smith,' said Mr Waller, 'I wanted just to ask you about
Psmith bowed his head gravely.
'Exactly,' he said. 'Comrade Jackson. I think I may say that you
have come to the right man. Comrade Jackson has placed himself in my
hands, and I am dealing with his case. A somewhat tricky business, but
I shall see him through.'
'Has he—?' Mr Waller hesitated.
'You were saying?' said Psmith.
'Does Mr Bickersdyke intend to dismiss him?'
'At present,' admitted Psmith, 'there is some idea of that
description floating—nebulously, as it were—in Comrade Bickersdyke's
mind. Indeed, from what I gather from my client, the push was actually
administered, in so many words. But tush! And possibly bah! we know
what happens on these occasions, do we not? You and I are students of
human nature, and we know that a man of Comrade Bickersdyke's
warm-hearted type is apt to say in the heat of the moment a great deal
more than he really means. Men of his impulsive character cannot help
expressing themselves in times of stress with a certain generous
strength which those who do not understand them are inclined to take a
little too seriously. I shall have a chat with Comrade Bickersdyke at
the conclusion of the day's work, and I have no doubt that we shall
both laugh heartily over this little episode.'
Mr Waller pulled at his beard, with an expression on his face that
seemed to suggest that he was not quite so confident on this point. He
was about to put his doubts into words when Mr Rossiter appeared, and
Psmith, murmuring something about duty, turned again to his ledger. The
cashier drifted back to his own department.
It was one of Psmith's theories of Life, which he was accustomed to
propound to Mike in the small hours of the morning with his feet on the
mantelpiece, that the secret of success lay in taking advantage of
one's occasional slices of luck, in seizing, as it were, the happy
moment. When Mike, who had had the passage to write out ten times at
Wrykyn on one occasion as an imposition, reminded him that Shakespeare
had once said something about there being a tide in the affairs of men,
which, taken at the flood, &c., Psmith had acknowledged with an easy
grace that possibly Shakespeare had got on to it first, and that
it was but one more proof of how often great minds thought alike.
Though waiving his claim to the copyright of the maxim, he
nevertheless had a high opinion of it, and frequently acted upon it in
the conduct of his own life.
Thus, when approaching the Senior Conservative Club at five o'clock
with the idea of finding Mr Bickersdyke there, he observed his quarry
entering the Turkish Baths which stand some twenty yards from the
club's front door, he acted on his maxim, and decided, instead of
waiting for the manager to finish his bath before approaching him on
the subject of Mike, to corner him in the Baths themselves.
He gave Mr Bickersdyke five minutes' start. Then, reckoning that by
that time he would probably have settled down, he pushed open the door
and went in himself. And, having paid his money, and left his boots
with the boy at the threshold, he was rewarded by the sight of the
manager emerging from a box at the far end of the room, clad in the
mottled towels which the bather, irrespective of his personal taste in
dress, is obliged to wear in a Turkish bath.
Psmith made for the same box. Mr Bickersdyke's clothes lay at the
head of one of the sofas, but nobody else had staked out a claim.
Psmith took possession of the sofa next to the manager's. Then, humming
lightly, he undressed, and made his way downstairs to the Hot Rooms. He
rather fancied himself in towels. There was something about them which
seemed to suit his figure. They gave him, he though, rather a
debonnaire look. He paused for a moment before the looking-glass to
examine himself, with approval, then pushed open the door of the Hot
Rooms and went in.
23. Mr Bickersdyke Makes a
Mr Bickersdyke was reclining in an easy-chair in the first room,
staring before him in the boiled-fish manner customary in a Turkish
Bath. Psmith dropped into the next seat with a cheery 'Good evening.'
The manager started as if some firm hand had driven a bradawl into him.
He looked at Psmith with what was intended to be a dignified stare. But
dignity is hard to achieve in a couple of parti-coloured towels. The
stare did not differ to any great extent from the conventional
boiled-fish look, alluded to above.
Psmith settled himself comfortably in his chair. 'Fancy finding you
here,' he said pleasantly. 'We seem always to be meeting. To me,' he
added, with a reassuring smile, 'it is a great pleasure. A very great
pleasure indeed. We see too little of each other during office hours.
Not that one must grumble at that. Work before everything. You have
your duties, I mine. It is merely unfortunate that those duties are not
such as to enable us to toil side by side, encouraging each other with
word and gesture. However, it is idle to repine. We must make the most
of these chance meetings when the work of the day is over.'
Mr Bickersdyke heaved himself up from his chair and took another at
the opposite end of the room. Psmith joined him.
'There's something pleasantly mysterious, to my mind,' said he
chattily, 'in a Turkish Bath. It seems to take one out of the hurry and
bustle of the everyday world. It is a quiet backwater in the rushing
river of Life. I like to sit and think in a Turkish Bath. Except, of
course, when I have a congenial companion to talk to. As now. To me—'
Mr Bickersdyke rose, and went into the next room.
'To me,' continued Psmith, again following, and seating himself
beside the manager, 'there is, too, something eerie in these places.
There is a certain sinister air about the attendants. They glide rather
than walk. They say little. Who knows what they may be planning and
plotting? That drip-drip again. It may be merely water, but how are we
to know that it is not blood? It would be so easy to do away with a man
in a Turkish Bath. Nobody has seen him come in. Nobody can trace him if
he disappears. These are uncomfortable thoughts, Mr Bickersdyke.'
Mr Bickersdyke seemed to think them so. He rose again, and returned
to the first room.
'I have made you restless,' said Psmith, in a voice of
self-reproach, when he had settled himself once more by the manager's
side. 'I am sorry. I will not pursue the subject. Indeed, I believe
that my fears are unnecessary. Statistics show, I understand, that
large numbers of men emerge in safety every year from Turkish Baths.
There was another matter of which I wished to speak to you. It is a
somewhat delicate matter, and I am only encouraged to mention it to you
by the fact that you are so close a friend of my father's.'
Mr Bickersdyke had picked up an early edition of an evening paper,
left on the table at his side by a previous bather, and was to all
appearances engrossed in it. Psmith, however, not discouraged,
proceeded to touch upon the matter of Mike.
'There was,' he said, 'some little friction, I hear, in the office
today in connection with a cheque.' The evening paper hid the manager's
expressive face, but from the fact that the hands holding it tightened
their grip Psmith deduced that Mr Bickersdyke's attention was not
wholly concentrated on the City news. Moreover, his toes wriggled. And
when a man's toes wriggle, he is interested in what you are saying.
'All these petty breezes,' continued Psmith sympathetically, 'must
be very trying to a man in your position, a man who wishes to be left
alone in order to devote his entire thought to the niceties of the
higher Finance. It is as if Napoleon, while planning out some intricate
scheme of campaign, were to be called upon in the midst of his
meditations to bully a private for not cleaning his buttons. Naturally,
you were annoyed. Your giant brain, wrenched temporarily from its
proper groove, expended its force in one tremendous reprimand of
Comrade Jackson. It was as if one had diverted some terrific electric
current which should have been controlling a vast system of machinery,
and turned it on to annihilate a black-beetle. In the present case, of
course, the result is as might have been expected. Comrade Jackson, not
realizing the position of affairs, went away with the absurd idea that
all was over, that you meant all you said—briefly, that his number was
up. I assured him that he was mistaken, but no! He persisted in
declaring that all was over, that you had dismissed him from the bank.'
Mr Bickersdyke lowered the paper and glared bulbously at the old
'Mr Jackson is perfectly right,' he snapped. 'Of course I dismissed
'Yes, yes,' said Psmith, 'I have no doubt that at the moment you did
work the rapid push. What I am endeavouring to point out is that
Comrade Jackson is under the impression that the edict is permanent,
that he can hope for no reprieve.'
'Nor can he.'
'You don't mean—'
'I mean what I say.'
'Ah, I quite understand,' said Psmith, as one who sees that he must
make allowances. 'The incident is too recent. The storm has not yet had
time to expend itself. You have not had leisure to think the matter
over coolly. It is hard, of course, to be cool in a Turkish Bath. Your
ganglions are still vibrating. Later, perhaps—'
'Once and for all,' growled Mr Bickersdyke, 'the thing is ended. Mr
Jackson will leave the bank at the end of the month. We have no room
for fools in the office.'
'You surprise me,' said Psmith. 'I should not have thought that the
standard of intelligence in the bank was extremely high. With the
exception of our two selves, I think that there are hardly any men of
real intelligence on the staff. And comrade Jackson is improving every
day. Being, as he is, under my constant supervision he is rapidly
developing a stranglehold on his duties, which—'
'I have no wish to discuss the matter any further.'
'No, no. Quite so, quite so. Not another word. I am dumb.'
'There are limits you see, to the uses of impertinence, Mr Smith.'
'You are not suggesting—! You do not mean that I—!'
'I have no more to say. I shall be glad if you will allow me to read
Psmith waved a damp hand.
'I should be the last man,' he said stiffly, 'to force my
conversation on another. I was under the impression that you enjoyed
these little chats as keenly as I did. If I was wrong—'
He relapsed into a wounded silence. Mr Bickersdyke resumed his
perusal of the evening paper, and presently, laying it down, rose and
made his way to the room where muscular attendants were in waiting to
perform that blend of Jiu-Jitsu and Catch-as-catch-can which is the
most valuable and at the same time most painful part of a Turkish Bath.
It was not till he was resting on his sofa, swathed from head to
foot in a sheet and smoking a cigarette, that he realized that Psmith
was sharing his compartment.
He made the unpleasant discovery just as he had finished his first
cigarette and lighted his second. He was blowing out the match when
Psmith, accompanied by an attendant, appeared in the doorway, and
proceeded to occupy the next sofa to himself. All that feeling of
dreamy peace, which is the reward one receives for allowing oneself to
be melted like wax and kneaded like bread, left him instantly. He felt
hot and annoyed. To escape was out of the question. Once one has been
scientifically wrapped up by the attendant and placed on one's sofa,
one is a fixture. He lay scowling at the ceiling, resolved to combat
all attempt at conversation with a stony silence.
Psmith, however, did not seem to desire conversation. He lay on his
sofa motionless for a quarter of an hour, then reached out for a large
book which lay on the table, and began to read.
When he did speak, he seemed to be speaking to himself. Every now
and then he would murmur a few words, sometimes a single name. In spite
of himself, Mr Bickersdyke found himself listening.
At first the murmurs conveyed nothing to him. Then suddenly a name
caught his ear. Strowther was the name, and somehow it suggested
something to him. He could not say precisely what. It seemed to touch
some chord of memory. He knew no one of the name of Strowther. He was
sure of that. And yet it was curiously familiar. An unusual name, too.
He could not help feeling that at one time he must have known it quite
'Mr Strowther,' murmured Psmith, 'said that the hon. gentleman's
remarks would have been nothing short of treason, if they had not been
so obviously the mere babblings of an irresponsible lunatic. Cries of
“Order, order,” and a voice, “Sit down, fat-head!”'
For just one moment Mr Bickersdyke's memory poised motionless, like
a hawk about to swoop. Then it darted at the mark. Everything came to
him in a flash. The hands of the clock whizzed back. He was no longer
Mr John Bickersdyke, manager of the London branch of the New Asiatic
Bank, lying on a sofa in the Cumberland Street Turkish Baths. He was
Jack Bickersdyke, clerk in the employ of Messrs Norton and Biggleswade,
standing on a chair and shouting 'Order! order!' in the Masonic Room of
the 'Red Lion' at Tulse Hill, while the members of the Tulse Hill
Parliament, divided into two camps, yelled at one another, and young
Tom Barlow, in his official capacity as Mister Speaker, waved his arms
dumbly, and banged the table with his mallet in his efforts to restore
He remembered the whole affair as if it had happened yesterday. It
had been a speech of his own which had called forth the above
expression of opinion from Strowther. He remembered Strowther now, a
pale, spectacled clerk in Baxter and Abrahams, an inveterate upholder
of the throne, the House of Lords and all constituted authority.
Strowther had objected to the socialistic sentiments of his speech in
connection with the Budget, and there had been a disturbance
unparalleled even in the Tulse Hill Parliament, where disturbances were
frequent and loud....
Psmith looked across at him with a bright smile. 'They report you
verbatim,' he said. 'And rightly. A more able speech I have seldom
read. I like the bit where you call the Royal Family “blood-suckers”.
Even then, it seems you knew how to express yourself fluently and
Mr Bickersdyke sat up. The hands of the clock had moved again, and
he was back in what Psmith had called the live, vivid present.
'What have you got there?' he demanded.
'It is a record,' said Psmith, 'of the meeting of an institution
called the Tulse Hill Parliament. A bright, chatty little institution,
too, if one may judge by these reports. You in particular, if I may say
so, appear to have let yourself go with refreshing vim. Your political
views have changed a great deal since those days, have they not? It is
extremely interesting. A most fascinating study for political students.
When I send these speeches of yours to the Clarion—'
Mr Bickersdyke bounded on his sofa.
'What!' he cried.
'I was saying,' said Psmith, 'that the Clarion will probably
make a most interesting comparison between these speeches and those you
have been making at Kenningford.'
'I—I—I forbid you to make any mention of these speeches.'
'It would be great fun seeing what the papers said,' he protested.
'It is true,' mused Psmith, 'that in a measure, it would dish you at
the election. From what I saw of those light-hearted lads at
Kenningford the other night, I should say they would be so amused that
they would only just have enough strength left to stagger to the poll
and vote for your opponent.'
Mr Bickersdyke broke out into a cold perspiration.
'I forbid you to send those speeches to the papers,' he cried.
'You see,' he said at last, 'it is like this. The departure of
Comrade Jackson, my confidential secretary and adviser, is certain to
plunge me into a state of the deepest gloom. The only way I can see at
present by which I can ensure even a momentary lightening of the inky
cloud is the sending of these speeches to some bright paper like the
Clarion. I feel certain that their comments would wring, at any
rate, a sad, sweet smile from me. Possibly even a hearty laugh. I must,
therefore, look on these very able speeches of yours in something of
the light of an antidote. They will stand between me and black
depression. Without them I am in the cart. With them I may possibly
buoy myself up.'
Mr Bickersdyke shifted uneasily on his sofa. He glared at the floor.
Then he eyed the ceiling as if it were a personal enemy of his. Finally
he looked at Psmith. Psmith's eyes were closed in peaceful meditation.
'Very well,' said he at last. 'Jackson shall stop.'
Psmith came out of his thoughts with a start. 'You were
observing—?' he said.
'I shall not dismiss Jackson,' said Mr Bickersdyke.
Psmith smiled winningly.
'Just as I had hoped,' he said. 'Your very justifiable anger melts
before reflection. The storm subsides, and you are at leisure to
examine the matter dispassionately. Doubts begin to creep in. Possibly,
you say to yourself, I have been too hasty, too harsh. Justice must be
tempered with mercy. I have caught Comrade Jackson bending, you add
(still to yourself), but shall I press home my advantage too
ruthlessly? No, you cry, I will abstain. And I applaud your action. I
like to see this spirit of gentle toleration. It is bracing and
comforting. As for these excellent speeches,' he added, 'I shall, of
course, no longer have any need of their consolation. I can lay them
aside. The sunlight can now enter and illumine my life through more
ordinary channels. The cry goes round, “Psmith is himself again.”'
Mr Bickersdyke said nothing. Unless a snort of fury may be counted
24. The Spirit of Unrest
During the following fortnight, two things happened which materially
altered Mike's position in the bank.
The first was that Mr Bickersdyke was elected a member of
Parliament. He got in by a small majority amidst scenes of disorder of
a nature unusual even in Kenningford. Psmith, who went down on the
polling-day to inspect the revels and came back with his hat smashed
in, reported that, as far as he could see, the electors of Kenningford
seemed to be in just that state of happy intoxication which might make
them vote for Mr Bickersdyke by mistake. Also it had been discovered,
on the eve of the poll, that the bank manager's opponent, in his youth,
had been educated at a school in Germany, and had subsequently spent
two years at Heidelberg University. These damaging revelations were
having a marked effect on the warm-hearted patriots of Kenningford, who
were now referring to the candidate in thick but earnest tones as 'the
'So that taking everything into consideration,' said Psmith, summing
up, 'I fancy that Comrade Bickersdyke is home.'
And the papers next day proved that he was right.
'A hundred and fifty-seven,' said Psmith, as he read his paper at
breakfast. 'Not what one would call a slashing victory. It is fortunate
for Comrade Bickersdyke, I think, that I did not send those very able
speeches of his to the Clarion'.
Till now Mike had been completely at a loss to understand why the
manager had sent for him on the morning following the scene about the
cheque, and informed him that he had reconsidered his decision to
dismiss him. Mike could not help feeling that there was more in the
matter than met the eye. Mr Bickersdyke had not spoken as if it gave
him any pleasure to reprieve him. On the contrary, his manner was
distinctly brusque. Mike was thoroughly puzzled. To Psmith's statement,
that he had talked the matter over quietly with the manager and brought
things to a satisfactory conclusion, he had paid little attention. But
now he began to see light.
'Great Scott, Smith,' he said, 'did you tell him you'd send those
speeches to the papers if he sacked me?'
Psmith looked at him through his eye-glass, and helped himself to
another piece of toast.
'I am unable,' he said, 'to recall at this moment the exact terms of
the very pleasant conversation I had with Comrade Bickersdyke on the
occasion of our chance meeting in the Turkish Bath that afternoon; but,
thinking things over quietly now that I have more leisure, I cannot
help feeling that he may possibly have read some such intention into my
words. You know how it is in these little chats, Comrade Jackson. One
leaps to conclusions. Some casual word I happened to drop may have
given him the idea you mention. At this distance of time it is
impossible to say with any certainty. Suffice it that all has ended
well. He did reconsider his resolve. I shall be only too happy
if it turns out that the seed of the alteration in his views was sown
by some careless word of mine. Perhaps we shall never know.'
Mike was beginning to mumble some awkward words of thanks, when
Psmith resumed his discourse.
'Be that as it may, however,' he said, 'we cannot but perceive that
Comrade Bickersdyke's election has altered our position to some extent.
As you have pointed out, he may have been influenced in this recent
affair by some chance remark of mine about those speeches. Now,
however, they will cease to be of any value. Now that he is elected he
has nothing to lose by their publication. I mention this by way of
indicating that it is possible that, if another painful episode occurs,
he may be more ruthless.'
'I see what you mean,' said Mike. 'If he catches me on the hop
again, he'll simply go ahead and sack me.'
'That,' said Psmith, 'is more or less the position of affairs.'
The other event which altered Mike's life in the bank was his
removal from Mr Waller's department to the Fixed Deposits. The work in
the Fixed Deposits was less pleasant, and Mr Gregory, the head of the
department was not of Mr Waller's type. Mr Gregory, before joining the
home-staff of the New Asiatic Bank, had spent a number of years with a
firm in the Far East, where he had acquired a liver and a habit of
addressing those under him in a way that suggested the mate of a tramp
steamer. Even on the days when his liver was not troubling him, he was
truculent. And when, as usually happened, it did trouble him, he was a
perfect fountain of abuse. Mike and he hated each other from the first.
The work in the Fixed Deposits was not really difficult, when you got
the hang of it, but there was a certain amount of confusion in it to a
beginner; and Mike, in commercial matters, was as raw a beginner as
ever began. In the two other departments through which he had passed,
he had done tolerably well. As regarded his work in the Postage
Department, stamping letters and taking them down to the post office
was just about his form. It was the sort of work on which he could
really get a grip. And in the Cash Department, Mr Waller's mild
patience had helped him through. But with Mr Gregory it was different.
Mike hated being shouted at. It confused him. And Mr Gregory invariably
shouted. He always spoke as if he were competing against a high wind.
With Mike he shouted more than usual. On his side, it must be admitted
that Mike was something out of the common run of bank clerks. The whole
system of banking was a horrid mystery to him. He did not understand
why things were done, or how the various departments depended on and
dove-tailed into one another. Each department seemed to him something
separate and distinct. Why they were all in the same building at all he
never really gathered. He knew that it could not be purely from motives
of sociability, in order that the clerks might have each other's
company during slack spells. That much he suspected, but beyond that he
It naturally followed that, after having grown, little by little,
under Mr Waller's easy-going rule, to enjoy life in the bank, he now
suffered a reaction. Within a day of his arrival in the Fixed Deposits
he was loathing the place as earnestly as he had loathed it on the
Psmith, who had taken his place in the Cash Department, reported
that Mr Waller was inconsolable at his loss.
'I do my best to cheer him up,' he said, 'and he smiles bravely
every now and then. But when he thinks I am not looking, his head
droops and that wistful expression comes into his face. The sunshine
has gone out of his life.'
It had just come into Mike's, and, more than anything else, was
making him restless and discontented. That is to say, it was now late
spring: the sun shone cheerfully on the City; and cricket was in the
air. And that was the trouble.
In the dark days, when everything was fog and slush, Mike had been
contented enough to spend his mornings and afternoons in the bank, and
go about with Psmith at night. Under such conditions, London is the
best place in which to be, and the warmth and light of the bank were
But now things had changed. The place had become a prison. With all
the energy of one who had been born and bred in the country, Mike hated
having to stay indoors on days when all the air was full of approaching
summer. There were mornings when it was almost more than he could do to
push open the swing doors, and go out of the fresh air into the stuffy
atmosphere of the bank.
The days passed slowly, and the cricket season began. Instead of
being a relief, this made matters worse. The little cricket he could
get only made him want more. It was as if a starving man had been given
a handful of wafer biscuits.
If the summer had been wet, he might have been less restless. But,
as it happened, it was unusually fine. After a week of cold weather at
the beginning of May, a hot spell set in. May passed in a blaze of
sunshine. Large scores were made all over the country.
Mike's name had been down for the M.C.C. for some years, and he had
become a member during his last season at Wrykyn. Once or twice a week
he managed to get up to Lord's for half an hour's practice at the nets;
and on Saturdays the bank had matches, in which he generally managed to
knock the cover off rather ordinary club bowling. But it was not enough
June came, and with it more sunshine. The atmosphere of the bank
seemed more oppressive than ever.
25. At the Telephone
If one looks closely into those actions which are apparently due to
sudden impulse, one generally finds that the sudden impulse was merely
the last of a long series of events which led up to the action. Alone,
it would not have been powerful enough to effect anything. But, coming
after the way has been paved for it, it is irresistible. The hooligan
who bonnets a policeman is apparently the victim of a sudden impulse.
In reality, however, the bonneting is due to weeks of daily encounters
with the constable, at each of which meetings the dislike for his
helmet and the idea of smashing it in grow a little larger, till
finally they blossom into the deed itself.
This was what happened in Mike's case. Day by day, through the
summer, as the City grew hotter and stuffier, his hatred of the bank
became more and more the thought that occupied his mind. It only needed
a moderately strong temptation to make him break out and take the
Psmith noticed his restlessness and endeavoured to soothe it.
'All is not well,' he said, 'with Comrade Jackson, the Sunshine of
the Home. I note a certain wanness of the cheek. The peach-bloom of
your complexion is no longer up to sample. Your eye is wild; your merry
laugh no longer rings through the bank, causing nervous customers to
leap into the air with startled exclamations. You have the manner of
one whose only friend on earth is a yellow dog, and who has lost the
dog. Why is this, Comrade Jackson?'
They were talking in the flat at Clement's Inn. The night was hot.
Through the open windows the roar of the Strand sounded faintly. Mike
walked to the window and looked out.
'I'm sick of all this rot,' he said shortly.
Psmith shot an inquiring glance at him, but said nothing. This
restlessness of Mike's was causing him a good deal of inconvenience,
which he bore in patient silence, hoping for better times. With Mike
obviously discontented and out of tune with all the world, there was
but little amusement to be extracted from the evenings now. Mike did
his best to be cheerful, but he could not shake off the caged feeling
which made him restless.
'What rot it all is!' went on Mike, sitting down again. 'What's the
good of it all? You go and sweat all day at a desk, day after day, for
about twopence a year. And when you're about eighty-five, you retire.
It isn't living at all. It's simply being a bally vegetable.'
'You aren't hankering, by any chance, to be a pirate of the Spanish
main, or anything like that, are you?' inquired Psmith.
'And all this rot about going out East,' continued Mike. 'What's the
good of going out East?'
'I gather from casual chit-chat in the office that one becomes
something of a blood when one goes out East,' said Psmith. 'Have a
dozen native clerks under you, all looking up to you as the Last Word
in magnificence, and end by marrying the Governor's daughter.'
'End by getting some foul sort of fever, more likely, and being
booted out as no further use to the bank.'
'You look on the gloomy side, Comrade Jackson. I seem to see you
sitting in an armchair, fanned by devoted coolies, telling some Eastern
potentate that you can give him five minutes. I understand that being
in a bank in the Far East is one of the world's softest jobs. Millions
of natives hang on your lightest word. Enthusiastic rajahs draw you
aside and press jewels into your hand as a token of respect and esteem.
When on an elephant's back you pass, somebody beats on a booming brass
gong! The Banker of Bhong! Isn't your generous young heart stirred to
any extent by the prospect? I am given to understand—'
'I've a jolly good mind to chuck up the whole thing and become a
pro. I've got a birth qualification for Surrey. It's about the only
thing I could do any good at.'
Psmith's manner became fatherly.
'You're all right,' he said. 'The hot weather has given you that
tired feeling. What you want is a change of air. We will pop down
together hand in hand this week-end to some seaside resort. You shall
build sand castles, while I lie on the beach and read the paper. In the
evening we will listen to the band, or stroll on the esplanade, not so
much because we want to, as to give the natives a treat. Possibly, if
the weather continues warm, we may even paddle. A vastly exhilarating
pastime, I am led to believe, and so strengthening for the ankles. And
on Monday morning we will return, bronzed and bursting with health, to
our toil once more.'
'I'm going to bed,' said Mike, rising.
Psmith watched him lounge from the room, and shook his head sadly.
All was not well with his confidential secretary and adviser.
The next day, which was a Thursday, found Mike no more reconciled to
the prospect of spending from ten till five in the company of Mr
Gregory and the ledgers. He was silent at breakfast, and Psmith, seeing
that things were still wrong, abstained from conversation. Mike propped
the Sportsman up against the hot-water jug, and read the cricket
news. His county, captained by brother Joe, had, as he had learned
already from yesterday's evening paper, beaten Sussex by five wickets
at Brighton. Today they were due to play Middlesex at Lord's. Mike
thought that he would try to get off early, and go and see some of the
first day's play.
As events turned out, he got off a good deal earlier, and saw a good
deal more of the first day's play than he had anticipated.
He had just finished the preliminary stages of the morning's work,
which consisted mostly of washing his hands, changing his coat, and
eating a section of a pen-holder, when William, the messenger,
'You're wanted on the 'phone, Mr Jackson.'
The New Asiatic Bank, unlike the majority of London banks, was on
the telephone, a fact which Psmith found a great convenience when
securing seats at the theatre. Mike went to the box and took up the
'Hullo!' he said.
'Who's that?' said an agitated voice. 'Is that you, Mike? I'm Joe.'
'Hullo, Joe,' said Mike. 'What's up? I'm coming to see you this
evening. I'm going to try and get off early.'
'Look here, Mike, are you busy at the bank just now?'
'Not at the moment. There's never anything much going on before
'I mean, are you busy today? Could you possibly manage to get off
and play for us against Middlesex?'
Mike nearly dropped the receiver.
'What?' he cried.
'There's been the dickens of a mix-up. We're one short, and you're
our only hope. We can't possibly get another man in the time. We start
in half an hour. Can you play?'
For the space of, perhaps, one minute, Mike thought.
'Well?' said Joe's voice.
The sudden vision of Lord's ground, all green and cool in the
morning sunlight, was too much for Mike's resolution, sapped as it was
by days of restlessness. The feeling surged over him that whatever
happened afterwards, the joy of the match in perfect weather on a
perfect wicket would make it worth while. What did it matter what
'All right, Joe,' he said. 'I'll hop into a cab now, and go and get
'Good man,' said Joe, hugely relieved.
26. Breaking The News
Dashing away from the call-box, Mike nearly cannoned into Psmith,
who was making his way pensively to the telephone with the object of
ringing up the box office of the Haymarket Theatre.
'Sorry,' said Mike. 'Hullo, Smith.'
'Hullo indeed,' said Psmith, courteously. 'I rejoice, Comrade
Jackson, to find you going about your commercial duties like a young
bomb. How is it, people repeatedly ask me, that Comrade Jackson
contrives to catch his employer's eye and win the friendly smile from
the head of his department? My reply is that where others walk, Comrade
Jackson runs. Where others stroll, Comrade Jackson legs it like a
highly-trained mustang of the prairie. He does not loiter. He gets back
to his department bathed in perspiration, in level time. He—'
'I say, Smith,' said Mike, 'you might do me a favour.'
'A thousand. Say on.'
'Just look in at the Fixed Deposits and tell old Gregory that I
shan't be with him today, will you? I haven't time myself. I must
Psmith screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and examined Mike
'What exactly—?' be began.
'Tell the old ass I've popped off.'
'Just so, just so,' murmured Psmith, as one who assents to a
thoroughly reasonable proposition. 'Tell him you have popped off. It
shall be done. But it is within the bounds of possibility that Comrade
Gregory may inquire further. Could you give me some inkling as to why
you are popping?'
'My brother Joe has just rung me up from Lords. The county are
playing Middlesex and they're one short. He wants me to roll up.'
Psmith shook his head sadly.
'I don't wish to interfere in any way,' he said, 'but I suppose you
realize that, by acting thus, you are to some extent knocking the
stuffing out of your chances of becoming manager of this bank? If you
dash off now, I shouldn't count too much on that marrying the
Governor's daughter scheme I sketched out for you last night. I doubt
whether this is going to help you to hold the gorgeous East in fee, and
all that sort of thing.'
'Oh, dash the gorgeous East.'
'By all means,' said Psmith obligingly. 'I just thought I'd mention
it. I'll look in at Lord's this afternoon. I shall send my card up to
you, and trust to your sympathetic cooperation to enable me to effect
an entry into the pavilion on my face. My father is coming up to London
today. I'll bring him along, too.'
'Right ho. Dash it, it's twenty to. So long. See you at Lord's.'
Psmith looked after his retreating form till it had vanished through
the swing-door, and shrugged his shoulders resignedly, as if
disclaiming all responsibility.
'He has gone without his hat,' he murmured. 'It seems to me that
this is practically a case of running amok. And now to break the news
to bereaved Comrade Gregory.'
He abandoned his intention of ringing up the Haymarket Theatre, and
turning away from the call-box, walked meditatively down the aisle till
he came to the Fixed Deposits Department, where the top of Mr Gregory's
head was to be seen over the glass barrier, as he applied himself to
Psmith, resting his elbows on the top of the barrier and holding his
head between his hands, eyed the absorbed toiler for a moment in
silence, then emitted a hollow groan.
Mr Gregory, who was ruling a line in a ledger—most of the work in
the Fixed Deposits Department consisted of ruling lines in ledgers,
sometimes in black ink, sometimes in red—started as if he had been
stung, and made a complete mess of the ruled line. He lifted a fiery,
bearded face, and met Psmith's eye, which shone with kindly sympathy.
He found words.
'What the dickens are you standing there for, mooing like a blanked
cow?' he inquired.
'I was groaning,' explained Psmith with quiet dignity. 'And why was
I groaning?' he continued. 'Because a shadow has fallen on the Fixed
Deposits Department. Comrade Jackson, the Pride of the Office, has
Mr Gregory rose from his seat.
'I don't know who the dickens you are—' he began.
'I am Psmith,' said the old Etonian,
'Oh, you're Smith, are you?'
'With a preliminary P. Which, however, is not sounded.'
'And what's all this dashed nonsense about Jackson?'
'He is gone. Gone like the dew from the petal of a rose.'
'Gone! Where's he gone to?'
Psmith waved his hand gently.
'You misunderstand me. Comrade Jackson has not gone to mix with any
member of our gay and thoughtless aristocracy. He has gone to Lord's
Mr Gregory's beard bristled even more than was its wont.
'What!' he roared. 'Gone to watch a cricket match! Gone—!'
'Not to watch. To play. An urgent summons I need not say. Nothing
but an urgent summons could have wrenched him from your very delightful
society, I am sure.'
Mr Gregory glared.
'I don't want any of your impudence,' he said.
Psmith nodded gravely.
'We all have these curious likes and dislikes,' he said tolerantly.
'You do not like my impudence. Well, well, some people don't. And now,
having broken the sad news, I will return to my own department.'
'Half a minute. You come with me and tell this yarn of yours to Mr
'You think it would interest, amuse him? Perhaps you are right. Let
us buttonhole Comrade Bickersdyke.'
Mr Bickersdyke was disengaged. The head of the Fixed Deposits
Department stumped into the room. Psmith followed at a more leisurely
'Allow me,' he said with a winning smile, as Mr Gregory opened his
mouth to speak, 'to take this opportunity of congratulating you on your
success at the election. A narrow but well-deserved victory.'
There was nothing cordial in the manager's manner.
'What do you want?' he said.
'Myself, nothing,' said Psmith. 'But I understand that Mr Gregory
has some communication to make.'
'Tell Mr Bickersdyke that story of yours,' said Mr Gregory.
'Surely,' said Psmith reprovingly, 'this is no time for anecdotes.
Mr Bickersdyke is busy. He—'
'Tell him what you told me about Jackson.'
Mr Bickersdyke looked up inquiringly.
'Jackson,' said Psmith, 'has been obliged to absent himself from
work today owing to an urgent summons from his brother, who, I
understand, has suffered a bereavement.'
'It's a lie,' roared Mr Gregory. 'You told me yourself he'd gone to
play in a cricket match.'
'True. As I said, he received an urgent summons from his brother.'
'What about the bereavement, then?'
'The team was one short. His brother was very distressed about it.
What could Comrade Jackson do? Could he refuse to help his brother when
it was in his power? His generous nature is a byword. He did the only
possible thing. He consented to play.'
Mr Bickersdyke spoke.
'Am I to understand,' he asked, with sinister calm, 'that Mr Jackson
has left his work and gone off to play in a cricket match?'
'Something of that sort has, I believe, happened,' said Psmith. 'He
knew, of course,' he added, bowing gracefully in Mr Gregory's
direction, 'that he was leaving his work in thoroughly competent
'Thank you,' said Mr Bickersdyke. 'That will do. You will help Mr
Gregory in his department for the time being, Mr Smith. I will arrange
for somebody to take your place in your own department.'
'It will be a pleasure,' murmured Psmith.
'Show Mr Smith what he has to do, Mr Gregory,' said the manager.
They left the room.
'How curious, Comrade Gregory,' mused Psmith, as they went, 'are the
workings of Fate! A moment back, and your life was a blank. Comrade
Jackson, that prince of Fixed Depositors, had gone. How, you said to
yourself despairingly, can his place be filled? Then the cloud broke,
and the sun shone out again. I came to help you. What you lose
on the swings, you make up on the roundabouts. Now show me what I have
to do, and then let us make this department sizzle. You have drawn a
good ticket, Comrade Gregory.'
27. At Lord's
Mike got to Lord's just as the umpires moved out into the field. He
raced round to the pavilion. Joe met him on the stairs.
'It's all right,' he said. 'No hurry. We've won the toss. I've put
you in fourth wicket.'
'Right ho,' said Mike. 'Glad we haven't to field just yet.'
'We oughtn't to have to field today if we don't chuck our wickets
'Like a billiard-table. I'm glad you were able to come. Have any
difficulty in getting away?'
Joe Jackson's knowledge of the workings of a bank was of the
slightest. He himself had never, since he left Oxford, been in a
position where there were obstacles to getting off to play in
first-class cricket. By profession he was agent to a sporting baronet
whose hobby was the cricket of the county, and so, far from finding any
difficulty in playing for the county, he was given to understand by his
employer that that was his chief duty. It never occurred to him that
Mike might find his bank less amenable in the matter of giving leave.
His only fear, when he rang Mike up that morning, had been that this
might be a particularly busy day at the New Asiatic Bank. If there was
no special rush of work, he took it for granted that Mike would simply
go to the manager, ask for leave to play in the match, and be given it
with a beaming smile.
Mike did not answer the question, but asked one on his own account.
'How did you happen to be short?' he said.
'It was rotten luck. It was like this. We were altering our team
after the Sussex match, to bring in Ballard, Keene, and Willis. They
couldn't get down to Brighton, as the 'Varsity had a match, but there
was nothing on for them in the last half of the week, so they'd
promised to roll up.'
Ballard, Keene, and Willis were members of the Cambridge team, all
very capable performers and much in demand by the county, when they
could get away to play for it.
'Well?' said Mike.
'Well, we all came up by train from Brighton last night. But these
three asses had arranged to motor down from Cambridge early today, and
get here in time for the start. What happens? Why, Willis, who fancies
himself as a chauffeur, undertakes to do the driving; and naturally,
being an absolute rotter, goes and smashes up the whole concern just
outside St Albans. The first thing I knew of it was when I got to
Lord's at half past ten, and found a wire waiting for me to say that
they were all three of them crocked, and couldn't possibly play. I tell
you, it was a bit of a jar to get half an hour before the match
started. Willis has sprained his ankle, apparently; Keene's damaged his
wrist; and Ballard has smashed his collar-bone. I don't suppose they'll
be able to play in the 'Varsity match. Rotten luck for Cambridge. Well,
fortunately we'd had two reserve pros, with us at Brighton, who had
come up to London with the team in case they might be wanted, so, with
them, we were only one short. Then I thought of you. That's how it
'I see,' said Mike. 'Who are the pros?'
'Davis and Brockley. Both bowlers. It weakens our batting a lot.
Ballard or Willis might have got a stack of runs on this wicket. Still,
we've got a certain amount of batting as it is. We oughtn't to do
badly, if we're careful. You've been getting some practice, I suppose,
'In a sort of a way. Nets and so on. No matches of any importance.'
'Dash it, I wish you'd had a game or two in decent class cricket.
Still, nets are better than nothing, I hope you'll be in form. We may
want a pretty long knock from you, if things go wrong. These men seem
to be settling down all right, thank goodness,' he added, looking out
of the window at the county's first pair, Warrington and Mills, two
professionals, who, as the result of ten minutes' play, had put up
'I'd better go and change,' said Mike, picking up his bag. 'You're
in first wicket, I suppose?'
'Yes. And Reggie, second wicket.'
Reggie was another of Mike's brothers, not nearly so fine a player
as Joe, but a sound bat, who generally made runs if allowed to stay in.
Mike changed, and went out into the little balcony at the top of the
pavilion. He had it to himself. There were not many spectators in the
pavilion at this early stage of the game.
There are few more restful places, if one wishes to think, than the
upper balconies of Lord's pavilion. Mike, watching the game making its
leisurely progress on the turf below, set himself seriously to review
the situation in all its aspects. The exhilaration of bursting the
bonds had begun to fade, and he found himself able to look into the
matter of his desertion and weigh up the consequences. There was no
doubt that he had cut the painter once and for all. Even a
friendly-disposed management could hardly overlook what he had done.
And the management of the New Asiatic Bank was the very reverse of
friendly. Mr Bickersdyke, he knew, would jump at this chance of getting
rid of him. He realized that he must look on his career in the bank as
a closed book. It was definitely over, and he must now think about the
It was not a time for half-measures. He could not go home. He must
carry the thing through, now that he had begun, and find something
definite to do, to support himself.
There seemed only one opening for him. What could he do, he asked
himself. Just one thing. He could play cricket. It was by his cricket
that he must live. He would have to become a professional. Could he get
taken on? That was the question. It was impossible that he should play
for his own county on his residential qualification. He could not
appear as a professional in the same team in which his brothers were
playing as amateurs. He must stake all on his birth qualification for
On the other hand, had he the credentials which Surrey would want?
He had a school reputation. But was that enough? He could not help
feeling that it might not be.
Thinking it over more tensely than he had ever thought over anything
in his whole life, he saw clearly that everything depended on what sort
of show he made in this match which was now in progress. It was his big
chance. If he succeeded, all would be well. He did not care to think
what his position would be if he did not succeed.
A distant appeal and a sound of clapping from the crowd broke in on
his thoughts. Mills was out, caught at the wicket. The telegraph-board
gave the total as forty-eight. Not sensational. The success of the team
depended largely on what sort of a start the two professionals made.
The clapping broke out again as Joe made his way down the steps.
Joe, as an All England player, was a favourite with the crowd.
Mike watched him play an over in his strong, graceful style: then it
suddenly occurred to him that he would like to know how matters had
gone at the bank in his absence.
He went down to the telephone, rang up the bank, and asked for
Presently the familiar voice made itself heard.
'Hullo. Is that Comrade Jackson? How are things progressing?'
'Fairly well. We're in first. We've lost one wicket, and the fifty's
just up. I say, what's happened at the bank?'
'I broke the news to Comrade Gregory. A charming personality. I feel
that we shall be friends.'
'Was he sick?'
'In a measure, yes. Indeed, I may say he practically foamed at the
mouth. I explained the situation, but he was not to be appeased. He
jerked me into the presence of Comrade Bickersdyke, with whom I had a
brief but entertaining chat. He had not a great deal to say, but he
listened attentively to my narrative, and eventually told me off to
take your place in the Fixed Deposits. That melancholy task I am now
performing to the best of my ability. I find the work a little trying.
There is too much ledger-lugging to be done for my simple tastes. I
have been hauling ledgers from the safe all the morning. The cry is
beginning to go round, “Psmith is willing, but can his physique stand
the strain?” In the excitement of the moment just now I dropped a
somewhat massive tome on to Comrade Gregory's foot, unfortunately, I
understand, the foot in which he has of late been suffering twinges of
gout. I passed the thing off with ready tact, but I cannot deny that
there was a certain temporary coolness, which, indeed, is not yet past.
These things, Comrade Jackson, are the whirlpools in the quiet stream
of commercial life.'
'Have I got the sack.'
'No official pronouncement has been made to me as yet on the
subject, but I think I should advise you, if you are offered another
job in the course of the day, to accept it. I cannot say that you are
precisely the pet of the management just at present. However, I have
ideas for your future, which I will divulge when we meet. I propose to
slide coyly from the office at about four o'clock. I am meeting my
father at that hour. We shall come straight on to Lord's.'
'Right ho,' said Mike. 'I'll be looking out for you.'
'Is there any little message I can give Comrade Gregory from you?'
'You can give him my love, if you like.'
'It shall be done. Good-bye.'
Mike replaced the receiver, and went up to his balcony again.
As soon as his eye fell on the telegraph-board he saw with a start
that things had been moving rapidly in his brief absence. The numbers
of the batsmen on the board were three and five.
'Great Scott!' he cried. 'Why, I'm in next. What on earth's been
He put on his pads hurriedly, expecting every moment that a wicket
would fall and find him unprepared. But the batsmen were still together
when he rose, ready for the fray, and went downstairs to get news.
He found his brother Reggie in the dressing-room,
'What's happened?' he said. 'How were you out?'
'L.b.w.,' said Reggie. 'Goodness knows how it happened. My eyesight
must be going. I mistimed the thing altogether.'
'How was Warrington out?'
'Caught in the slips.'
'By Jove!' said Mike. 'This is pretty rocky. Three for sixty-one. We
shall get mopped.'
'Unless you and Joe do something. There's no earthly need to get
out. The wicket's as good as you want, and the bowling's nothing
special. Well played, Joe!'
A beautiful glide to leg by the greatest of the Jacksons had rolled
up against the pavilion rails. The fieldsmen changed across for the
'If only Peters stops a bit—' began Mike, and broke off. Peters'
off stump was lying at an angle of forty-five degrees.
'Well, he hasn't,' said Reggie grimly. 'Silly ass, why did he hit at
that one? All he'd got to do was to stay in with Joe. Now it's up to
you. Do try and do something, or we'll be out under the hundred.'
Mike waited till the outcoming batsman had turned in at the
professionals' gate. Then he walked down the steps and out into the
open, feeling more nervous than he had felt since that far-off day when
he had first gone in to bat for Wrykyn against the M.C.C. He found his
thoughts flying back to that occasion. Today, as then, everything
seemed very distant and unreal. The spectators were miles away. He had
often been to Lord's as a spectator, but the place seemed entirely
unfamiliar now. He felt as if he were in a strange land.
He was conscious of Joe leaving the crease to meet him on his way.
He smiled feebly. 'Buck up,' said Joe in that robust way of his which
was so heartening. 'Nothing in the bowling, and the wicket like a
shirt-front. Play just as if you were at the nets. And for goodness'
sake don't try to score all your runs in the first over. Stick in, and
we've got them.'
Mike smiled again more feebly than before, and made a weird gurgling
noise in his throat.
It had been the Middlesex fast bowler who had destroyed Peters. Mike
was not sorry. He did not object to fast bowling. He took guard, and
looked round him, taking careful note of the positions of the slips.
As usual, once he was at the wicket the paralysed feeling left him.
He became conscious again of his power. Dash it all, what was there to
be afraid of? He was a jolly good bat, and he would jolly well show
them that he was, too.
The fast bowler, with a preliminary bound, began his run. Mike
settled himself into position, his whole soul concentrated on the ball.
Everything else was wiped from his mind.
28. Psmith Arranges his Future
It was exactly four o'clock when Psmith, sliding unostentatiously
from his stool, flicked divers pieces of dust from the leg of his
trousers, and sidled towards the basement, where he was wont to keep
his hat during business hours. He was aware that it would be a matter
of some delicacy to leave the bank at that hour. There was a certain
quantity of work still to be done in the Fixed Deposits
Department—work in which, by rights, as Mike's understudy, he should
have lent a sympathetic and helping hand. 'But what of that?' he mused,
thoughtfully smoothing his hat with his knuckles. 'Comrade Gregory is a
man who takes such an enthusiastic pleasure in his duties that he will
go singing about the office when he discovers that he has got a double
lot of work to do.'
With this comforting thought, he started on his perilous journey to
the open air. As he walked delicately, not courting observation, he
reminded himself of the hero of 'Pilgrim's Progress'. On all sides of
him lay fearsome beasts, lying in wait to pounce upon him. At any
moment Mr Gregory's hoarse roar might shatter the comparative
stillness, or the sinister note of Mr Bickersdyke make itself heard.
'However,' said Psmith philosophically, 'these are Life's Trials,
and must be borne patiently.'
A roundabout route, via the Postage and Inwards Bills Departments,
took him to the swing-doors. It was here that the danger became acute.
The doors were well within view of the Fixed Deposits Department, and
Mr Gregory had an eye compared with which that of an eagle was more or
Psmith looked up. Mr Gregory was leaning over the barrier manner. As
he did so a bellow rang through the office, causing a timid customer,
who had come in to arrange about an overdraft, to lose his nerve
completely and postpone his business till the following afternoon.
Psmith looked up. Mr Gregory was leaning over the barrier which
divided his lair from the outer world, and gesticulating violently.
'Where are you going,' roared the head of the Fixed Deposits.
Psmith did not reply. With a benevolent smile and a gesture intended
to signify all would come right in the future, he slid through the
swing-doors, and began to move down the street at a somewhat swifter
pace than was his habit.
Once round the corner he slackened his speed.
'This can't go on,' he said to himself. 'This life of commerce is
too great a strain. One is practically a hunted hare. Either the heads
of my department must refrain from View Halloos when they observe me
going for a stroll, or I abandon Commerce for some less exacting walk
He removed his hat, and allowed the cool breeze to play upon his
forehead. The episode had been disturbing.
He was to meet his father at the Mansion House. As he reached that
land-mark he saw with approval that punctuality was a virtue of which
he had not the sole monopoly in the Smith family. His father was
waiting for him at the tryst.
'Certainly, my boy,' said Mr Smith senior, all activity in a moment,
when Psmith had suggested going to Lord's. 'Excellent. We must be
getting on. We must not miss a moment of the match. Bless my soul: I
haven't seen a first-class match this season. Where's a cab? Hi, cabby!
No, that one's got some one in it. There's another. Hi! Here, lunatic!
Are you blind? Good, he's seen us. That's right. Here he comes. Lord's
Cricket Ground, cabby, as quick as you can. Jump in, Rupert, my boy,
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
'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—?'
Psmith related briefly the history of Mike's departure.
Mr Smith listened with interest.
'Well,' he said at last, 'hang me if I blame the boy. It's a sin
cooping up a fellow who can bat like that in a bank. I should have done
the same myself in his place.'
Psmith smoothed his waistcoat.
'Do you know, father,' he said, 'this bank business is far from
being much of a catch. Indeed, I should describe it definitely as a bit
off. I have given it a fair trial, and I now denounce it unhesitatingly
as a shade too thick.'
'What? Are you getting tired of it?'
'Not precisely tired. But, after considerable reflection, I have
come to the conclusion that my talents lie elsewhere. At lugging
ledgers I am among the also-rans—a mere cipher. I have been wanting to
speak to you about this for some time. If you have no objection, I
should like to go to the Bar.'
'The Bar? Well—'
'I fancy I should make a pretty considerable hit as a barrister.'
Mr Smith reflected. The idea had not occurred to him before. Now
that it was suggested, his always easily-fired imagination took hold of
it readily. There was a good deal to be said for the Bar as a career.
Psmith knew his father, and he knew that the thing was practically as
good as settled. It was a new idea, and as such was bound to be
'What I should do, if I were you,' he went on, as if he were
advising a friend on some course of action certain to bring him profit
and pleasure, 'is to take me away from the bank at once. Don't wait.
There is no time like the present. Let me hand in my resignation
tomorrow. The blow to the management, especially to Comrade
Bickersdyke, will be a painful one, but it is the truest kindness to
administer it swiftly. Let me resign tomorrow, and devote my time to
quiet study. Then I can pop up to Cambridge next term, and all will be
'I'll think it over—' began Mr Smith.
'Let us hustle,' urged Psmith. 'Let us Do It Now. It is the only
way. Have I your leave to shoot in my resignation to Comrade
Bickersdyke tomorrow morning?'
Mr Smith hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind.
'Very well,' he said. 'I really think it is a good idea. There are
great opportunities open to a barrister. I wish we had thought of it
'I am not altogether sorry that we did not,' said Psmith. 'I have
enjoyed the chances my commercial life has given me of associating with
such a man as Comrade Bickersdyke. In many ways a master-mind. But
perhaps it is as well to close the chapter. How it happened it is hard
to say, but somehow I fancy I did not precisely hit it off with Comrade
Bickersdyke. With Psmith, the worker, he had no fault to find; but it
seemed to me sometimes, during our festive evenings together at the
club, that all was not well. From little, almost imperceptible signs I
have suspected now and then that he would just as soon have been
without my company. One cannot explain these things. It must have been
some incompatibility of temperament. Perhaps he will manage to bear up
at my departure. But here we are,' he added, as the cab drew up. 'I
wonder if Comrade Jackson is still going strong.'
They passed through the turnstile, and caught sight of the
'By Jove!' said Psmith, 'he is. I don't know if he's number three or
number six. I expect he's number six. In which case he has got
ninety-eight. We're just in time to see his century.'
29. And Mike's
For nearly two hours Mike had been experiencing the keenest pleasure
that it had ever fallen to his lot to feel. From the moment he took his
first ball till the luncheon interval he had suffered the acutest
discomfort. His nervousness had left him to a great extent, but he had
never really settled down. Sometimes by luck, and sometimes by skill,
he had kept the ball out of his wicket; but he was scratching, and he
knew it. Not for a single over had he been comfortable. On several
occasions he had edged balls to leg and through the slips in quite an
inferior manner, and it was seldom that he managed to hit with the
centre of the bat.
Nobody is more alive to the fact that he is not playing up to his
true form than the batsman. Even though his score mounted little by
little into the twenties, Mike was miserable. If this was the best he
could do on a perfect wicket, he felt there was not much hope for him
as a professional.
The poorness of his play was accentuated by the brilliance of Joe's.
Joe combined science and vigour to a remarkable degree. He laid on the
wood with a graceful robustness which drew much cheering from the
crowd. Beside him Mike was oppressed by that leaden sense of moral
inferiority which weighs on a man who has turned up to dinner in
ordinary clothes when everybody else has dressed. He felt awkward and
conspicuously out of place.
Then came lunch—and after lunch a glorious change.
Volumes might be written on the cricket lunch and the influence it
has on the run of the game; how it undoes one man, and sends another
back to the fray like a giant refreshed; how it turns the brilliant
fast bowler into the sluggish medium, and the nervous bat into the
On Mike its effect was magical. He lunched wisely and well, chewing
his food with the concentration of a thirty-three-bites a mouthful
crank, and drinking dry ginger-ale. As he walked out with Joe after the
interval he knew that a change had taken place in him. His nerve had
come back, and with it his form.
It sometimes happens at cricket that when one feels particularly fit
one gets snapped in the slips in the first over, or clean bowled by a
full toss; but neither of these things happened to Mike. He stayed in,
and began to score. Now there were no edgings through the slips and
snicks to leg. He was meeting the ball in the centre of the bat, and
meeting it vigorously. Two boundaries in successive balls off the fast
bowler, hard, clean drives past extra-cover, put him at peace with all
the world. He was on top. He had found himself.
Joe, at the other end, resumed his brilliant career. His century and
Mike's fifty arrived in the same over. The bowling began to grow loose.
Joe, having reached his century, slowed down somewhat, and Mike took
up the running. The score rose rapidly.
A leg-theory bowler kept down the pace of the run-getting for a
time, but the bowlers at the other end continued to give away runs.
Mike's score passed from sixty to seventy, from seventy to eighty, from
eighty to ninety. When the Smiths, father and son, came on to the
ground the total was ninety-eight. Joe had made a hundred and
* * * * *
Mike reached his century just as Psmith and his father took their
seats. A square cut off the slow bowler was just too wide for point to
get to. By the time third man had sprinted across and returned the ball
the batsmen had run two.
Mr Smith was enthusiastic.
'I tell you,' he said to Psmith, who was clapping in a gently
encouraging manner, 'the boy's a wonderful bat. I said so when he was
down with us. I remember telling him so myself. “I've seen your
brothers play,” I said, “and you're better than any of them.” I
remember it distinctly. He'll be playing for England in another year or
two. Fancy putting a cricketer like that into the City! It's a crime.'
'I gather,' said Psmith, 'that the family coffers had got a bit low.
It was necessary for Comrade Jackson to do something by way of saving
the Old Home.'
'He ought to be at the University. Look, he's got that man away to
the boundary again. They'll never get him out.'
At six o'clock the partnership was broken, Joe running himself out
in trying to snatch a single where no single was. He had made a hundred
Mike flung himself down on the turf with mixed feelings. He was
sorry Joe was out, but he was very glad indeed of the chance of a rest.
He was utterly fagged. A half-day match once a week is no training for
first-class cricket. Joe, who had been playing all the season, was as
tough as india-rubber, and trotted into the pavilion as fresh as if he
had been having a brief spell at the nets. Mike, on the other hand,
felt that he simply wanted to be dropped into a cold bath and left
there indefinitely. There was only another half-hour's play, but he
doubted if he could get through it.
He dragged himself up wearily as Joe's successor arrived at the
wickets. He had crossed Joe before the latter's downfall, and it was
his turn to take the bowling.
Something seemed to have gone out of him. He could not time the ball
properly. The last ball of the over looked like a half-volley, and he
hit out at it. But it was just short of a half-volley, and his stroke
arrived too soon. The bowler, running in the direction of mid-on,
brought off an easy c.-and-b.
Mike turned away towards the pavilion. He heard the gradually
swelling applause in a sort of dream. It seemed to him hours before he
reached the dressing-room.
He was sitting on a chair, wishing that somebody would come along
and take off his pads, when Psmith's card was brought to him. A few
moments later the old Etonian appeared in person.
'Hullo, Smith,' said Mike, 'By Jove! I'm done.'
'“How Little Willie Saved the Match,”' said Psmith. 'What you want
is one of those gin and ginger-beers we hear so much about. Remove
those pads, and let us flit downstairs in search of a couple. Well,
Comrade Jackson, you have fought the good fight this day. My father
sends his compliments. He is dining out, or he would have come up. He
is going to look in at the flat latish.'
'How many did I get?' asked Mike. 'I was so jolly done I didn't
think of looking.'
'A hundred and forty-eight of the best,' said Psmith. 'What will
they say at the old homestead about this? Are you ready? Then let us
test this fruity old ginger-beer of theirs.'
The two batsmen who had followed the big stand were apparently
having a little stand all of their own. No more wickets fell before the
drawing of stumps. Psmith waited for Mike while he changed, and carried
him off in a cab to Simpson's, a restaurant which, as he justly
observed, offered two great advantages, namely, that you need not
dress, and, secondly, that you paid your half-crown, and were then at
liberty to eat till you were helpless, if you felt so disposed, without
Mike stopped short of this giddy height of mastication, but consumed
enough to make him feel a great deal better. Psmith eyed his inroads on
the menu with approval.
'There is nothing,' he said, 'like victualling up before an ordeal.'
'What's the ordeal?' said Mike.
'I propose to take you round to the club anon, where I trust we
shall find Comrade Bickersdyke. We have much to say to one another.'
'Look here, I'm hanged—' began Mike.
'Yes, you must be there,' said Psmith. 'Your presence will serve to
cheer Comrade B. up. Fate compels me to deal him a nasty blow, and he
will want sympathy. I have got to break it to him that I am leaving the
'What, are you going to chuck it?'
Psmith inclined his head.
'The time,' he said, 'has come to part. It has served its turn. The
startled whisper runs round the City. “Psmith has had sufficient.”'
'What are you going to do?'
'I propose to enter the University of Cambridge, and there to study
the intricacies of the Law, with a view to having a subsequent dash at
becoming Lord Chancellor.'
'By Jove!' said Mike, 'you're lucky. I wish I were coming too.'
Psmith knocked the ash off his cigarette.
'Are you absolutely set on becoming a pro?' he asked.
'It depends on what you call set. It seems to me it's about all I
'I can offer you a not entirely scaly job,' said Smith, 'if you feel
like taking it. In the course of conversation with my father during the
match this afternoon, I gleaned the fact that he is anxious to secure
your services as a species of agent. The vast Psmith estates, it seems,
need a bright boy to keep an eye upon them. Are you prepared to accept
'Me! Dash it all, how old do you think I am? I'm only nineteen.'
'I had suspected as much from the alabaster clearness of your
unwrinkled brow. But my father does not wish you to enter upon your
duties immediately. There would be a preliminary interval of three,
possibly four, years at Cambridge, during which I presume, you would be
learning divers facts concerning spuds, turmuts, and the like. At
least,' said Psmith airily, 'I suppose so. Far be it from me to dictate
the line of your researches.'
'Then I'm afraid it's off,' said Mike gloomily. 'My pater couldn't
afford to send me to Cambridge.'
'That obstacle,' said Psmith, 'can be surmounted. You would, of
course, accompany me to Cambridge, in the capacity, which you enjoy at
the present moment, of my confidential secretary and adviser. Any
expenses that might crop up would be de-frayed from the Psmith family
Mike's eyes opened wide again.
'Do you mean,' he asked bluntly, 'that your pater would pay for me
at the 'Varsity? No I say—dash it—I mean, I couldn't—'
'Do you suggest,' said Psmith, raising his eyebrows, 'that I should
go to the University without a confidential secretary and
'No, but I mean—' protested Mike.
'Then that's settled,' said Psmith. 'I knew you would not desert me
in my hour of need, Comrade Jackson. “What will you do,” asked my
father, alarmed for my safety, “among these wild undergraduates? I fear
for my Rupert.” “Have no fear, father,” I replied. “Comrade Jackson
will be beside me.” His face brightened immediately. “Comrade Jackson,”
he said, “is a man in whom I have the supremest confidence. If he is
with you I shall sleep easy of nights.” It was after that that the
conversation drifted to the subject of agents.'
Psmith called for the bill and paid it in the affable manner of a
monarch signing a charter. Mike sat silent, his mind in a whirl. He saw
exactly what had happened. He could almost hear Psmith talking his
father into agreeing with his scheme. He could think of nothing to say.
As usually happened in any emotional crisis in his life, words
absolutely deserted him. The thing was too big. Anything he could say
would sound too feeble. When a friend has solved all your difficulties
and smoothed out all the rough places which were looming in your path,
you cannot thank him as if he had asked you to lunch. The occasion
demanded some neat, polished speech; and neat, polished speeches were
'I say, Psmith—' he began.
'Let us now,' he said, 'collect our hats and meander to the club,
where, I have no doubt, we shall find Comrade Bickersdyke, all
unconscious of impending misfortune, dreaming pleasantly over coffee
and a cigar in the lower smoking-room.'
30. The Last Sad Farewells
As it happened, that was precisely what Mr Bickersdyke was doing. He
was feeling thoroughly pleased with life. For nearly nine months Psmith
had been to him a sort of spectre at the feast inspiring him with an
ever-present feeling of discomfort which he had found impossible to
shake off. And tonight he saw his way of getting rid of him.
At five minutes past four Mr Gregory, crimson and wrathful, had
plunged into his room with a long statement of how Psmith, deputed to
help in the life and thought of the Fixed Deposits Department, had left
the building at four o'clock, when there was still another hour and a
half's work to be done.
Moreover, Mr Gregory deposed, the errant one, seen sliding out of
the swinging door, and summoned in a loud, clear voice to come back,
had flatly disobeyed and had gone upon his ways 'Grinning at me,' said
the aggrieved Mr Gregory, 'like a dashed ape.' A most unjust
description of the sad, sweet smile which Psmith had bestowed upon him
from the doorway.
Ever since that moment Mr Bickersdyke had felt that there was a
silver lining to the cloud. Hitherto Psmith had left nothing to be
desired in the manner in which he performed his work. His righteousness
in the office had clothed him as in a suit of mail. But now he had
slipped. To go off an hour and a half before the proper time, and to
refuse to return when summoned by the head of his department—these
were offences for which he could be dismissed without fuss. Mr
Bickersdyke looked forward to tomorrow's interview with his employee.
Meanwhile, having enjoyed an excellent dinner, he was now, as Psmith
had predicted, engaged with a cigar and a cup of coffee in the lower
smoking-room of the Senior Conservative Club.
Psmith and Mike entered the room when he was about half through
Psmith's first action was to summon a waiter, and order a glass of
neat brandy. 'Not for myself,' he explained to Mike. 'For Comrade
Bickersdyke. He is about to sustain a nasty shock, and may need a
restorative at a moment's notice. For all we know, his heart may not be
strong. In any case, it is safest to have a pick-me-up handy.'
He paid the waiter, and advanced across the room, followed by Mike.
In his hand, extended at arm's length, he bore the glass of brandy.
Mr Bickersdyke caught sight of the procession, and started. Psmith
set the brandy down very carefully on the table, beside the manager's
coffee cup, and, dropping into a chair, regarded him pityingly through
his eyeglass. Mike, who felt embarrassed, took a seat some little way
behind his companion. This was Psmith's affair, and he proposed to
allow him to do the talking.
Mr Bickersdyke, except for a slight deepening of the colour of his
complexion, gave no sign of having seen them. He puffed away at his
cigar, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
'An unpleasant task lies before us,' began Psmith in a low,
sorrowful voice, 'and it must not be shirked. Have I your ear, Mr
Addressed thus directly, the manager allowed his gaze to wander from
the ceiling. He eyed Psmith for a moment like an elderly basilisk, then
looked back at the ceiling again.
'I shall speak to you tomorrow,' he said.
Psmith heaved a heavy sigh.
'You will not see us tomorrow,' he said, pushing the brandy a little
Mr Bickersdyke's eyes left the ceiling once more.
'What do you mean?' he said.
'Drink this,' urged Psmith sympathetically, holding out the glass.
'Be brave,' he went on rapidly. 'Time softens the harshest blows.
Shocks stun us for the moment, but we recover. Little by little we come
to ourselves again. Life, which we had thought could hold no more
pleasure for us, gradually shows itself not wholly grey.'
Mr Bickersdyke seemed about to make an observation at this point,
but Psmith, with a wave of the hand, hurried on.
'We find that the sun still shines, the birds still sing. Things
which used to entertain us resume their attraction. Gradually we emerge
from the soup, and begin—'
'If you have anything to say to me,' said the manager, 'I should be
glad if you would say it, and go.'
'You prefer me not to break the bad news gently?' said Psmith.
'Perhaps you are wise. In a word, then,'—he picked up the brandy and
held it out to him—'Comrade Jackson and myself are leaving the bank.'
'I am aware of that,' said Mr Bickersdyke drily.
Psmith put down the glass.
'You have been told already?' he said. 'That accounts for your calm.
The shock has expended its force on you, and can do no more. You are
stunned. I am sorry, but it had to be. You will say that it is madness
for us to offer our resignations, that our grip on the work of the bank
made a prosperous career in Commerce certain for us. It may be so. But
somehow we feel that our talents lie elsewhere. To Comrade Jackson the
management of the Psmith estates seems the job on which he can get the
rapid half-Nelson. For my own part, I feel that my long suit is the
Bar. I am a poor, unready speaker, but I intend to acquire a knowledge
of the Law which shall outweigh this defect. Before leaving you, I
should like to say—I may speak for you as well as myself, Comrade
Mike uttered his first contribution to the conversation—a
gurgle—and relapsed into silence again.
'I should like to say,' continued Psmith, 'how much Comrade Jackson
and I have enjoyed our stay in the bank. The insight it has given us
into your masterly handling of the intricate mechanism of the office
has been a treat we would not have missed. But our place is elsewhere.'
He rose. Mike followed his example with alacrity. It occurred to Mr
Bickersdyke, as they turned to go, that he had not yet been able to get
in a word about their dismissal. They were drifting away with all the
honours of war.
'Come back,' he cried.
Psmith paused and shook his head sadly.
'This is unmanly, Comrade Bickersdyke,' he said. 'I had not expected
this. That you should be dazed by the shock was natural. But that you
should beg us to reconsider our resolve and return to the bank is
unworthy of you. Be a man. Bite the bullet. The first keen pang will
pass. Time will soften the feeling of bereavement. You must be brave.
Come, Comrade Jackson.'
Mike responded to the call without hesitation.
'We will now,' said Psmith, leading the way to the door, 'push back
to the flat. My father will be round there soon.' He looked over his
shoulder. Mr Bickersdyke appeared to be wrapped in thought.
'A painful business,' sighed Psmith. 'The man seems quite broken up.
It had to be, however. The bank was no place for us. An excellent
career in many respects, but unsuitable for you and me. It is hard on
Comrade Bickersdyke, especially as he took such trouble to get me into
it, but I think we may say that we are well out of the place.'
Mike's mind roamed into the future. Cambridge first, and then an
open-air life of the sort he had always dreamed of. The Problem of Life
seemed to him to be solved. He looked on down the years, and he could
see no troubles there of any kind whatsoever. Reason suggested that
there were probably one or two knocking about somewhere, but this was
no time to think of them. He examined the future, and found it good.
'I should jolly well think,' he said simply, 'that we might.'