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
with him.'
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?'
'Manchester United.'
'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 him.
'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 Bannister.'
'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
for years.'
'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
him.'
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
eighteen members.
To Mr Bickersdyke for the next week it seemed as if there was only one.
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
approached him.
'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
and subscription.'
'Thank you, sir.'
The waiter went downstairs and found Mr Bickersdyke in the lower
smoking-room.
'The gentleman says he is, sir.'
'H'm,' said the bank-manager. 'Coffee and Benedictine, and a cigar.'
'Yes, sir.'
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
sympathetically.
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
sympathetically throughout.
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
driven snow.
Psmith took his place at the table.
'A somewhat nervous excitable man, Mr Bickersdyke, I should say,' he
observed.
'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
consolation.'
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 Constituents
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 away.'
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
imagery.
'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 was satisfactory.
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
deal less.
Mr Bickersdyke's introducer was an elderly Scotch peer, an excellent
man for the purpose in every respect, except that he possessed a very
strong accent.
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
address it.
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 burning
boats?'
The inanity of the question enraged even the pleasure-seekers at the
back.
'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
general laugh.
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
District.'
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
Government.
There was applause.
When it had ceased, Psmith rose to his feet again.
'Excuse me,' he said.
11. Misunderstood
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
joy.
'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
row?'
'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?'
Psmith nodded.
'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 caught - '
'Why, dash it all,' said Mike, 'that's a frightful chestnut.'
Psmith nodded.
'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
action misconstrued.'
'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
you.'
'I wish you could,' said Psmith courteously.
'Still, it doesn't matter much to you. You don't care if you do get
sacked.'
Psmith rose.
'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 them
tomorrow.'
'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 happy - Psmith.
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
column.
The column was headed, 'Amusing Heckling'.
Mr Bickersdyke read a few lines, and crumpled the paper up with a
snort.
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 manager's
room.
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
instructions.
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,
ingratiatingly.
'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
the manager.
'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 - '