14 Psmith in the City

by Unknown

  ‘Yes, what about him?’ said Mike. ‘You’ll have a pretty tough job turning him into a friendly native, I should think. How do you mean to start?’

  Psmith regarded him with a benevolent eye.

  ‘There is but one way,’ he said. ‘Do you remember the case of Comrade Outwood, at Sedleigh? How did we corral him, and become to him practically as long-lost sons?’

  ‘We got round him by joining the Archaeological Society.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Psmith. ‘Every man has his hobby. The thing is to find it out. In the case of comrade Rossiter, I should say that it would be either postage stamps, dried seaweed, or Hall Caine. I shall endeavour to find out today. A few casual questions, and the thing is done. Shall we be putting in an appearance at the busy hive now? If we are to continue in the running for the bonus stakes, it would be well to start soon.’

  Mike’s first duty at the bank that morning was to check the stamps and petty cash. While he was engaged on this task, he heard Psmith conversing affably with Mr Rossiter.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Psmith.

  ‘Morning,’ replied his chief, doing sleight-of-hand tricks with a bundle of letters which lay on his desk. ‘Get on with your work, Psmith. We have a lot before us.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. I am all impatience. I should say that in an institution 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 Rossit
er 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 eyeglass, ‘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 eyeglass. 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 eyeglass, 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 Bick
ersdyke 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—’