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
Etonian.
'Mr Jackson is perfectly right,' he snapped. 'Of course I dismissed
him.'
'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.'
Psmith started.
'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 my
paper.'
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
well.
'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
calm.
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
well.'
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.'
Psmith hesitated.
'It would be great fun seeing what the papers said,' he protested.
'Great fun!'
'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.
Psmith reflected.
'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 as
anything.
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 German
Spy'.
'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
was vague.
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 first
morning.
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
pleasant.
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
for him.
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
consequences.
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--'