23. Mr Bickersdyke Makes a Concession
Mr Bickersdyke was reclining in an easy-chair in the first room,staring before him in the boiled-fish manner customary in a TurkishBath. Psmith dropped into the next seat with a cheery 'Good evening.'The manager started as if some firm hand had driven a bradawl into him.He looked at Psmith with what was intended to be a dignified stare. Butdignity is hard to achieve in a couple of parti-coloured towels. Thestare did not differ to any great extent from the conventionalboiled-fish look, alluded to above.
Psmith settled himself comfortably in his chair. 'Fancy finding youhere,' he said pleasantly. 'We seem always to be meeting. To me,' headded, with a reassuring smile, 'it is a great pleasure. A very greatpleasure indeed. We see too little of each other during office hours.Not that one must grumble at that. Work before everything. You haveyour duties, I mine. It is merely unfortunate that those duties are notsuch as to enable us to toil side by side, encouraging each other withword and gesture. However, it is idle to repine. We must make the mostof these chance meetings when the work of the day is over.'
Mr Bickersdyke heaved himself up from his chair and took another at theopposite end of the room. Psmith joined him.
'There's something pleasantly mysterious, to my mind,' said hechattily, 'in a Turkish Bath. It seems to take one out of the hurry andbustle of the everyday world. It is a quiet backwater in the rushingriver of Life. I like to sit and think in a Turkish Bath. Except, ofcourse, 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 besidethe manager, 'there is, too, something eerie in these places. There isa certain sinister air about the attendants. They glide rather thanwalk. They say little. Who knows what they may be planning andplotting? That drip-drip again. It may be merely water, but how are weto know that it is not blood? It would be so easy to do away with a manin a Turkish Bath. Nobody has seen him come in. Nobody can trace him ifhe disappears. These are uncomfortable thoughts, Mr Bickersdyke.'
Mr Bickersdyke seemed to think them so. He rose again, and returned tothe 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 amsorry. I will not pursue the subject. Indeed, I believe that my fearsare unnecessary. Statistics show, I understand, that large numbers ofmen emerge in safety every year from Turkish Baths. There was anothermatter of which I wished to speak to you. It is a somewhat delicatematter, and I am only encouraged to mention it to you by the fact thatyou are so close a friend of my father's.'
Mr Bickersdyke had picked up an early edition of an evening paper, lefton the table at his side by a previous bather, and was to allappearances 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 officetoday in connection with a cheque.' The evening paper hid the manager'sexpressive face, but from the fact that the hands holding it tightenedtheir grip Psmith deduced that Mr Bickersdyke's attention was notwholly concentrated on the City news. Moreover, his toes wriggled. Andwhen a man's toes wriggle, he is interested in what you are saying.
'All these petty breezes,' continued Psmith sympathetically, 'must bevery trying to a man in your position, a man who wishes to be leftalone in order to devote his entire thought to the niceties of thehigher Finance. It is as if Napoleon, while planning out some intricatescheme of campaign, were to be called upon in the midst of hismeditations to bully a private for not cleaning his buttons. Naturally,you were annoyed. Your giant brain, wrenched temporarily from itsproper groove, expended its force in one tremendous reprimand ofComrade Jackson. It was as if one had diverted some terrific electriccurrent which should have been controlling a vast system of machinery,and turned it on to annihilate a black-beetle. In the present case, ofcourse, the result is as might have been expected. Comrade Jackson, notrealizing the position of affairs, went away with the absurd idea thatall was over, that you meant all you said--briefly, that his number wasup. I assured him that he was mistaken, but no! He persisted indeclaring that all was over, that you had dismissed him from the bank.'
Mr Bickersdyke lowered the paper and glared bulbously at the oldEtonian.
'Mr Jackson is perfectly right,' he snapped. 'Of course I dismissedhim.'
'Yes, yes,' said Psmith, 'I have no doubt that at the moment you didwork the rapid push. What I am endeavouring to point out is thatComrade 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 mustmake allowances. 'The incident is too recent. The storm has not yet hadtime to expend itself. You have not had leisure to think the matterover coolly. It is hard, of course, to be cool in a Turkish Bath. Yourganglions are still vibrating. Later, perhaps--'
'Once and for all,' growled Mr Bickersdyke, 'the thing is ended. MrJackson will leave the bank at the end of the month. We have no roomfor fools in the office.'
'You surprise me,' said Psmith. 'I should not have thought that thestandard of intelligence in the bank was extremely high. With theexception of our two selves, I think that there are hardly any men ofreal intelligence on the staff. And comrade Jackson is improving everyday. Being, as he is, under my constant supervision he is rapidlydeveloping 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 mypaper.'
Psmith waved a damp hand.
'I should be the last man,' he said stiffly, 'to force my conversationon another. I was under the impression that you enjoyed these littlechats as keenly as I did. If I was wrong--'
He relapsed into a wounded silence. Mr Bickersdyke resumed his perusalof the evening paper, and presently, laying it down, rose and made hisway to the room where muscular attendants were in waiting to performthat blend of Jiu-Jitsu and Catch-as-catch-can which is the mostvaluable 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 footin a sheet and smoking a cigarette, that he realized that Psmith wassharing his compartment.
He made the unpleasant discovery just as he had finished his firstcigarette and lighted his second. He was blowing out the match whenPsmith, accompanied by an attendant, appeared in the doorway, andproceeded to occupy the next sofa to himself. All that feeling ofdreamy peace, which is the reward one receives for allowing oneself tobe melted like wax and kneaded like bread, left him instantly. He felthot and annoyed. To escape was out of the question. Once one has beenscientifically wrapped up by the attendant and placed on one's sofa,one is a fixture. He lay scowling at the ceiling, resolved to combatall attempt at conversation with a stony silence.
Psmith, however, did not seem to desire conversation. He lay on hissofa motionless for a quarter of an hour, then reached out for a largebook which lay on the table, and began to read.
When he did speak, he seemed to be speaking to himself. Every now andthen he would murmur a few words, sometimes a single name. In spite ofhimself, Mr Bickersdyke found himself listening.
At first the murmurs conveyed nothing to him. Then suddenly a namecaught his ear. Strowther was the name, and somehow it suggestedsomething to him. He could not say precisely what. It seemed to touchsome chord of memory. He knew no one of the name of Strowther. He wassure 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 qu
itewell.
'Mr Strowther,' murmured Psmith, 'said that the hon. gentleman'sremarks would have been nothing short of treason, if they had not beenso 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 ahawk about to swoop. Then it darted at the mark. Everything came to himin a flash. The hands of the clock whizzed back. He was no longer MrJohn Bickersdyke, manager of the London branch of the New Asiatic Bank,lying on a sofa in the Cumberland Street Turkish Baths. He was JackBickersdyke, clerk in the employ of Messrs Norton and Biggleswade,standing on a chair and shouting 'Order! order!' in the Masonic Room ofthe 'Red Lion' at Tulse Hill, while the members of the Tulse HillParliament, divided into two camps, yelled at one another, and youngTom Barlow, in his official capacity as Mister Speaker, waved his armsdumbly, and banged the table with his mallet in his efforts to restorecalm.
He remembered the whole affair as if it had happened yesterday. It hadbeen a speech of his own which had called forth the above expression ofopinion from Strowther. He remembered Strowther now, a pale, spectacledclerk in Baxter and Abrahams, an inveterate upholder of the throne, theHouse of Lords and all constituted authority. Strowther had objected tothe socialistic sentiments of his speech in connection with the Budget,and there had been a disturbance unparalleled even in the Tulse HillParliament, where disturbances were frequent and loud....
Psmith looked across at him with a bright smile. 'They report youverbatim,' he said. 'And rightly. A more able speech I have seldomread. I like the bit where you call the Royal Family "blood-suckers".Even then, it seems you knew how to express yourself fluently andwell.'
Mr Bickersdyke sat up. The hands of the clock had moved again, and hewas 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 calledthe Tulse Hill Parliament. A bright, chatty little institution, too, ifone may judge by these reports. You in particular, if I may say so,appear to have let yourself go with refreshing vim. Your politicalviews have changed a great deal since those days, have they not? It isextremely 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 probablymake a most interesting comparison between these speeches and those youhave 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 atthe election. From what I saw of those light-hearted lads atKenningford the other night, I should say they would be so amused thatthey would only just have enough strength left to stagger to the polland 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 ComradeJackson, my confidential secretary and adviser, is certain to plunge meinto a state of the deepest gloom. The only way I can see at present bywhich I can ensure even a momentary lightening of the inky cloud is thesending 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 ofan antidote. They will stand between me and black depression. Withoutthem 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. Finallyhe 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 meltsbefore reflection. The storm subsides, and you are at leisure toexamine the matter dispassionately. Doubts begin to creep in. Possibly,you say to yourself, I have been too hasty, too harsh. Justice must betempered with mercy. I have caught Comrade Jackson bending, you add(still to yourself), but shall I press home my advantage tooruthlessly? No, you cry, I will abstain. And I applaud your action. Ilike to see this spirit of gentle toleration. It is bracing andcomforting. As for these excellent speeches,' he added, 'I shall, ofcourse, no longer have any need of their consolation. I can lay themaside. The sunlight can now enter and illumine my life through moreordinary channels. The cry goes round, "Psmith is himself again."'
Mr Bickersdyke said nothing. Unless a snort of fury may be counted asanything.
Psmith in the City Page 23
