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 craze.
I--'
'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?'
'No.'
'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.
'Yes.'
'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 Rossiter.'
'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
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.