Books: Psmith in the City
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P. G. Wodehouse >> Psmith in the City
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They passed through the turnstile, and caught sight of the
telegraph-board.
'By Jove!' said Psmith, 'he is. I don't know if he's number three or
number six. I expect he's number six. In which case he has got
ninety-eight. We're just in time to see his century.'
29. And Mike's
For nearly two hours Mike had been experiencing the keenest pleasure
that it had ever fallen to his lot to feel. From the moment he took his
first ball till the luncheon interval he had suffered the acutest
discomfort. His nervousness had left him to a great extent, but he had
never really settled down. Sometimes by luck, and sometimes by skill,
he had kept the ball out of his wicket; but he was scratching, and he
knew it. Not for a single over had he been comfortable. On several
occasions he had edged balls to leg and through the slips in quite an
inferior manner, and it was seldom that he managed to hit with the
centre of the bat.
Nobody is more alive to the fact that he is not playing up to his true
form than the batsman. Even though his score mounted little by little
into the twenties, Mike was miserable. If this was the best he could do
on a perfect wicket, he felt there was not much hope for him as a
professional.
The poorness of his play was accentuated by the brilliance of Joe's.
Joe combined science and vigour to a remarkable degree. He laid on the
wood with a graceful robustness which drew much cheering from the
crowd. Beside him Mike was oppressed by that leaden sense of moral
inferiority which weighs on a man who has turned up to dinner in
ordinary clothes when everybody else has dressed. He felt awkward and
conspicuously out of place.
Then came lunch--and after lunch a glorious change.
Volumes might be written on the cricket lunch and the influence it has
on the run of the game; how it undoes one man, and sends another back
to the fray like a giant refreshed; how it turns the brilliant fast
bowler into the sluggish medium, and the nervous bat into the masterful
smiter.
On Mike its effect was magical. He lunched wisely and well, chewing his
food with the concentration of a thirty-three-bites a mouthful crank,
and drinking dry ginger-ale. As he walked out with Joe after the
interval he knew that a change had taken place in him. His nerve had
come back, and with it his form.
It sometimes happens at cricket that when one feels particularly fit
one gets snapped in the slips in the first over, or clean bowled by a
full toss; but neither of these things happened to Mike. He stayed in,
and began to score. Now there were no edgings through the slips and
snicks to leg. He was meeting the ball in the centre of the bat, and
meeting it vigorously. Two boundaries in successive balls off the fast
bowler, hard, clean drives past extra-cover, put him at peace with all
the world. He was on top. He had found himself.
Joe, at the other end, resumed his brilliant career. His century and
Mike's fifty arrived in the same over. The bowling began to grow loose.
Joe, having reached his century, slowed down somewhat, and Mike took up
the running. The score rose rapidly.
A leg-theory bowler kept down the pace of the run-getting for a time,
but the bowlers at the other end continued to give away runs. Mike's
score passed from sixty to seventy, from seventy to eighty, from eighty
to ninety. When the Smiths, father and son, came on to the ground the
total was ninety-eight. Joe had made a hundred and thirty-three.
* * * * *
Mike reached his century just as Psmith and his father took their
seats. A square cut off the slow bowler was just too wide for point to
get to. By the time third man had sprinted across and returned the ball
the batsmen had run two.
Mr Smith was enthusiastic.
'I tell you,' he said to Psmith, who was clapping in a gently
encouraging manner, 'the boy's a wonderful bat. I said so when he was
down with us. I remember telling him so myself. "I've seen your
brothers play," I said, "and you're better than any of them." I
remember it distinctly. He'll be playing for England in another year or
two. Fancy putting a cricketer like that into the City! It's a crime.'
'I gather,' said Psmith, 'that the family coffers had got a bit low. It
was necessary for Comrade Jackson to do something by way of saving the
Old Home.'
'He ought to be at the University. Look, he's got that man away to the
boundary again. They'll never get him out.'
At six o'clock the partnership was broken, Joe running himself out in
trying to snatch a single where no single was. He had made a hundred
and eighty-nine.
Mike flung himself down on the turf with mixed feelings. He was sorry
Joe was out, but he was very glad indeed of the chance of a rest. He
was utterly fagged. A half-day match once a week is no training for
first-class cricket. Joe, who had been playing all the season, was as
tough as india-rubber, and trotted into the pavilion as fresh as if he
had been having a brief spell at the nets. Mike, on the other hand,
felt that he simply wanted to be dropped into a cold bath and left
there indefinitely. There was only another half-hour's play, but he
doubted if he could get through it.
He dragged himself up wearily as Joe's successor arrived at the
wickets. He had crossed Joe before the latter's downfall, and it was
his turn to take the bowling.
Something seemed to have gone out of him. He could not time the ball
properly. The last ball of the over looked like a half-volley, and he
hit out at it. But it was just short of a half-volley, and his stroke
arrived too soon. The bowler, running in the direction of mid-on,
brought off an easy c.-and-b.
Mike turned away towards the pavilion. He heard the gradually swelling
applause in a sort of dream. It seemed to him hours before he reached
the dressing-room.
He was sitting on a chair, wishing that somebody would come along and
take off his pads, when Psmith's card was brought to him. A few moments
later the old Etonian appeared in person.
'Hullo, Smith,' said Mike, 'By Jove! I'm done.'
'"How Little Willie Saved the Match,"' said Psmith. 'What you want is
one of those gin and ginger-beers we hear so much about. Remove those
pads, and let us flit downstairs in search of a couple. Well, Comrade
Jackson, you have fought the good fight this day. My father sends his
compliments. He is dining out, or he would have come up. He is going to
look in at the flat latish.'
'How many did I get?' asked Mike. 'I was so jolly done I didn't think
of looking.'
'A hundred and forty-eight of the best,' said Psmith. 'What will they
say at the old homestead about this? Are you ready? Then let us test
this fruity old ginger-beer of theirs.'
The two batsmen who had followed the big stand were apparently having a
little stand all of their own. No more wickets fell before the drawing
of stumps. Psmith waited for Mike while he changed, and carried him off
in a cab to Simpson's, a restaurant which, as he justly observed,
offered two great advantages, namely, that you need not dress, and,
secondly, that you paid your half-crown, and were then at liberty to
eat till you were helpless, if you felt so disposed, without extra
charge.
Mike stopped short of this giddy height of mastication, but consumed
enough to make him feel a great deal better. Psmith eyed his inroads on
the menu with approval.
'There is nothing,' he said, 'like victualling up before an ordeal.'
'What's the ordeal?' said Mike.
'I propose to take you round to the club anon, where I trust we shall
find Comrade Bickersdyke. We have much to say to one another.'
'Look here, I'm hanged--' began Mike.
'Yes, you must be there,' said Psmith. 'Your presence will serve to
cheer Comrade B. up. Fate compels me to deal him a nasty blow, and he
will want sympathy. I have got to break it to him that I am leaving the
bank.'
'What, are you going to chuck it?'
Psmith inclined his head.
'The time,' he said, 'has come to part. It has served its turn. The
startled whisper runs round the City. "Psmith has had sufficient."'
'What are you going to do?'
'I propose to enter the University of Cambridge, and there to study the
intricacies of the Law, with a view to having a subsequent dash at
becoming Lord Chancellor.'
'By Jove!' said Mike, 'you're lucky. I wish I were coming too.'
Psmith knocked the ash off his cigarette.
'Are you absolutely set on becoming a pro?' he asked.
'It depends on what you call set. It seems to me it's about all I can
do.'
'I can offer you a not entirely scaly job,' said Smith, 'if you feel
like taking it. In the course of conversation with my father during the
match this afternoon, I gleaned the fact that he is anxious to secure
your services as a species of agent. The vast Psmith estates, it seems,
need a bright boy to keep an eye upon them. Are you prepared to accept
the post?'
Mike stared.
'Me! Dash it all, how old do you think I am? I'm only nineteen.'
'I had suspected as much from the alabaster clearness of your
unwrinkled brow. But my father does not wish you to enter upon your
duties immediately. There would be a preliminary interval of three,
possibly four, years at Cambridge, during which I presume, you would be
learning divers facts concerning spuds, turmuts, and the like. At
least,' said Psmith airily, 'I suppose so. Far be it from me to dictate
the line of your researches.'
'Then I'm afraid it's off,' said Mike gloomily. 'My pater couldn't
afford to send me to Cambridge.'
'That obstacle,' said Psmith, 'can be surmounted. You would, of course,
accompany me to Cambridge, in the capacity, which you enjoy at the
present moment, of my confidential secretary and adviser. Any expenses
that might crop up would be defrayed from the Psmith family chest.'
Mike's eyes opened wide again.
'Do you mean,' he asked bluntly, 'that your pater would pay for me at
the 'Varsity? No I say--dash it--I mean, I couldn't--'
'Do you suggest,' said Psmith, raising his eyebrows, 'that I should go
to the University _without_ a confidential secretary and adviser?'
'No, but I mean--' protested Mike.
'Then that's settled,' said Psmith. 'I knew you would not desert me in
my hour of need, Comrade Jackson. "What will you do," asked my father,
alarmed for my safety, "among these wild undergraduates? I fear for my
Rupert." "Have no fear, father," I replied. "Comrade Jackson will be
beside me." His face brightened immediately. "Comrade Jackson," he
said, "is a man in whom I have the supremest confidence. If he is with
you I shall sleep easy of nights." It was after that that the
conversation drifted to the subject of agents.'
Psmith called for the bill and paid it in the affable manner of a
monarch signing a charter. Mike sat silent, his mind in a whirl. He saw
exactly what had happened. He could almost hear Psmith talking his
father into agreeing with his scheme. He could think of nothing to say.
As usually happened in any emotional crisis in his life, words
absolutely deserted him. The thing was too big. Anything he could say
would sound too feeble. When a friend has solved all your difficulties
and smoothed out all the rough places which were looming in your path,
you cannot thank him as if he had asked you to lunch. The occasion
demanded some neat, polished speech; and neat, polished speeches were
beyond Mike.
'I say, Psmith--' he began.
Psmith rose.
'Let us now,' he said, 'collect our hats and meander to the club,
where, I have no doubt, we shall find Comrade Bickersdyke, all
unconscious of impending misfortune, dreaming pleasantly over coffee
and a cigar in the lower smoking-room.'
30. The Last Sad Farewells
As it happened, that was precisely what Mr Bickersdyke was doing. He
was feeling thoroughly pleased with life. For nearly nine months Psmith
had been to him a sort of spectre at the feast inspiring him with an
ever-present feeling of discomfort which he had found impossible to
shake off. And tonight he saw his way of getting rid of him.
At five minutes past four Mr Gregory, crimson and wrathful, had plunged
into his room with a long statement of how Psmith, deputed to help in
the life and thought of the Fixed Deposits Department, had left the
building at four o'clock, when there was still another hour and a
half's work to be done.
Moreover, Mr Gregory deposed, the errant one, seen sliding out of the
swinging door, and summoned in a loud, clear voice to come back, had
flatly disobeyed and had gone upon his ways 'Grinning at me,' said the
aggrieved Mr Gregory, 'like a dashed ape.' A most unjust description of
the sad, sweet smile which Psmith had bestowed upon him from the
doorway.
Ever since that moment Mr Bickersdyke had felt that there was a silver
lining to the cloud. Hitherto Psmith had left nothing to be desired in
the manner in which he performed his work. His righteousness in the
office had clothed him as in a suit of mail. But now he had slipped. To
go off an hour and a half before the proper time, and to refuse to
return when summoned by the head of his department--these were offences
for which he could be dismissed without fuss. Mr Bickersdyke looked
forward to tomorrow's interview with his employee.
Meanwhile, having enjoyed an excellent dinner, he was now, as Psmith
had predicted, engaged with a cigar and a cup of coffee in the lower
smoking-room of the Senior Conservative Club.
Psmith and Mike entered the room when he was about half through these
luxuries.
Psmith's first action was to summon a waiter, and order a glass of neat
brandy. 'Not for myself,' he explained to Mike. 'For Comrade
Bickersdyke. He is about to sustain a nasty shock, and may need a
restorative at a moment's notice. For all we know, his heart may not be
strong. In any case, it is safest to have a pick-me-up handy.'
He paid the waiter, and advanced across the room, followed by Mike. In
his hand, extended at arm's length, he bore the glass of brandy.
Mr Bickersdyke caught sight of the procession, and started. Psmith set
the brandy down very carefully on the table, beside the manager's
coffee cup, and, dropping into a chair, regarded him pityingly through
his eyeglass. Mike, who felt embarrassed, took a seat some little way
behind his companion. This was Psmith's affair, and he proposed to
allow him to do the talking.
Mr Bickersdyke, except for a slight deepening of the colour of his
complexion, gave no sign of having seen them. He puffed away at his
cigar, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
'An unpleasant task lies before us,' began Psmith in a low, sorrowful
voice, 'and it must not be shirked. Have I your ear, Mr Bickersdyke?'
Addressed thus directly, the manager allowed his gaze to wander from
the ceiling. He eyed Psmith for a moment like an elderly basilisk, then
looked back at the ceiling again.
'I shall speak to you tomorrow,' he said.
Psmith heaved a heavy sigh.
'You will not see us tomorrow,' he said, pushing the brandy a little
nearer.
Mr Bickersdyke's eyes left the ceiling once more.
'What do you mean?' he said.
'Drink this,' urged Psmith sympathetically, holding out the glass. 'Be
brave,' he went on rapidly. 'Time softens the harshest blows. Shocks
stun us for the moment, but we recover. Little by little we come to
ourselves again. Life, which we had thought could hold no more pleasure
for us, gradually shows itself not wholly grey.'
Mr Bickersdyke seemed about to make an observation at this point, but
Psmith, with a wave of the hand, hurried on.
'We find that the sun still shines, the birds still sing. Things which
used to entertain us resume their attraction. Gradually we emerge from
the soup, and begin--'
'If you have anything to say to me,' said the manager, 'I should be
glad if you would say it, and go.'
'You prefer me not to break the bad news gently?' said Psmith. 'Perhaps
you are wise. In a word, then,'--he picked up the brandy and held it
out to him--'Comrade Jackson and myself are leaving the bank.'
'I am aware of that,' said Mr Bickersdyke drily.
Psmith put down the glass.
'You have been told already?' he said. 'That accounts for your calm.
The shock has expended its force on you, and can do no more. You are
stunned. I am sorry, but it had to be. You will say that it is madness
for us to offer our resignations, that our grip on the work of the bank
made a prosperous career in Commerce certain for us. It may be so. But
somehow we feel that our talents lie elsewhere. To Comrade Jackson the
management of the Psmith estates seems the job on which he can get the
rapid half-Nelson. For my own part, I feel that my long suit is the
Bar. I am a poor, unready speaker, but I intend to acquire a knowledge
of the Law which shall outweigh this defect. Before leaving you, I
should like to say--I may speak for you as well as myself, Comrade
Jackson--?'
Mike uttered his first contribution to the conversation--a gurgle--and
relapsed into silence again.
'I should like to say,' continued Psmith, 'how much Comrade Jackson and
I have enjoyed our stay in the bank. The insight it has given us into
your masterly handling of the intricate mechanism of the office has
been a treat we would not have missed. But our place is elsewhere.'
He rose. Mike followed his example with alacrity. It occurred to Mr
Bickersdyke, as they turned to go, that he had not yet been able to get
in a word about their dismissal. They were drifting away with all the
honours of war.
'Come back,' he cried.
Psmith paused and shook his head sadly.
'This is unmanly, Comrade Bickersdyke,' he said. 'I had not expected
this. That you should be dazed by the shock was natural. But that you
should beg us to reconsider our resolve and return to the bank is
unworthy of you. Be a man. Bite the bullet. The first keen pang will
pass. Time will soften the feeling of bereavement. You must be brave.
Come, Comrade Jackson.'
Mike responded to the call without hesitation.
'We will now,' said Psmith, leading the way to the door, 'push back to
the flat. My father will be round there soon.' He looked over his
shoulder. Mr Bickersdyke appeared to be wrapped in thought.
'A painful business,' sighed Psmith. 'The man seems quite broken up. It
had to be, however. The bank was no place for us. An excellent career
in many respects, but unsuitable for you and me. It is hard on Comrade
Bickersdyke, especially as he took such trouble to get me into it, but
I think we may say that we are well out of the place.'
Mike's mind roamed into the future. Cambridge first, and then an
open-air life of the sort he had always dreamed of. The Problem of
Life seemed to him to be solved. He looked on down the years, and he
could see no troubles there of any kind whatsoever. Reason suggested
that there were probably one or two knocking about somewhere, but this
was no time to think of them. He examined the future, and found it good.
'I should jolly well think,' he said simply, 'that we might.'
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