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
right place.
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
excite remark.
'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 hoops.'
So that, altogether, Mike's life in the bank had become very fairly
pleasant.
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
department.
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
inclination.
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 place.
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 just
now--'
'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
Bristow.'
'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
Socialist.'
'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.
'Er--exactly.'
Psmith extended his hand gravely. Mr Waller shook it with enthusiasm.
'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--'
'Hyde Park?'
'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--'
'Yes, yes.'
'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
luck.'
'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
taxi.'
'Beastly expensive.'
'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 spoke.
'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
trees.'
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.