Books: Psmith in the City
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P. G. Wodehouse >> Psmith in the City
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Mr Waller paused momentarily before renewing his harangue. The man in
the cloth cap raised his hand. There was a swirl in the crowd, and the
first thing that Psmith saw as he turned was Mike seizing the would-be
marksman round the neck and hurling him to the ground, after the manner
of a forward at football tackling an opponent during a line-out from
touch.
There is one thing which will always distract the attention of a crowd
from any speaker, and that is a dispute between two of its units. Mr
Waller's views on temperance were forgotten in an instant. The audience
surged round Mike and his opponent.
The latter had scrambled to his feet now, and was looking round for his
assailant.
'That's 'im, Bill!' cried eager voices, indicating Mike.
''E's the bloke wot 'it yer, Bill,' said others, more precise in
detail.
Bill advanced on Mike in a sidelong, crab-like manner.
''Oo're you, I should like to know?' said Bill.
Mike, rightly holding that this was merely a rhetorical question and
that Bill had no real thirst for information as to his family history,
made no reply. Or, rather, the reply he made was not verbal. He waited
till his questioner was within range, and then hit him in the eye. A
reply far more satisfactory, if not to Bill himself, at any rate to the
interested onlookers, than any flow of words.
A contented sigh went up from the crowd. Their Sunday afternoon was
going to be spent just as they considered Sunday afternoons should be
spent.
'Give us your coat,' said Psmith briskly, 'and try and get it over
quick. Don't go in for any fancy sparring. Switch it on, all you know,
from the start. I'll keep a thoughtful eye open to see that none of his
friends and relations join in.'
Outwardly Psmith was unruffled, but inwardly he was not feeling so
composed. An ordinary turn-up before an impartial crowd which could be
relied upon to preserve the etiquette of these matters was one thing.
As regards the actual little dispute with the cloth-capped Bill, he
felt that he could rely on Mike to handle it satisfactorily. But there
was no knowing how long the crowd would be content to remain mere
spectators. There was no doubt which way its sympathies lay. Bill, now
stripped of his coat and sketching out in a hoarse voice a scenario of
what he intended to do--knocking Mike down and stamping him into the
mud was one of the milder feats he promised to perform for the
entertainment of an indulgent audience--was plainly the popular
favourite.
Psmith, though he did not show it, was more than a little apprehensive.
Mike, having more to occupy his mind in the immediate present, was not
anxious concerning the future. He had the great advantage over Psmith
of having lost his temper. Psmith could look on the situation as a
whole, and count the risks and possibilities. Mike could only see Bill
shuffling towards him with his head down and shoulders bunched.
'Gow it, Bill!' said someone.
'Pliy up, the Arsenal!' urged a voice on the outskirts of the crowd.
A chorus of encouragement from kind friends in front: 'Step up, Bill!'
And Bill stepped.
16. Further Developments
Bill (surname unknown) was not one of your ultra-scientific fighters.
He did not favour the American crouch and the artistic feint. He had a
style wholly his own. It seemed to have been modelled partly on a
tortoise and partly on a windmill. His head he appeared to be trying to
conceal between his shoulders, and he whirled his arms alternately in
circular sweeps.
Mike, on the other hand, stood upright and hit straight, with the
result that he hurt his knuckles very much on his opponent's skull,
without seeming to disturb the latter to any great extent. In the
process he received one of the windmill swings on the left ear. The
crowd, strong pro-Billites, raised a cheer.
This maddened Mike. He assumed the offensive. Bill, satisfied for the
moment with his success, had stepped back, and was indulging in some
fancy sparring, when Mike sprang upon him like a panther. They
clinched, and Mike, who had got the under grip, hurled Bill forcibly
against a stout man who looked like a publican. The two fell in a heap,
Bill underneath.
At the same time Bill's friends joined in.
The first intimation Mike had of this was a violent blow across the
shoulders with a walking-stick. Even if he had been wearing his
overcoat, the blow would have hurt. As he was in his jacket it hurt
more than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He leapt up
with a yell, but Psmith was there before him. Mike saw his assailant
lift the stick again, and then collapse as the old Etonian's right took
him under the chin.
He darted to Psmith's side.
'This is no place for us,' observed the latter sadly. 'Shift ho, I
think. Come on.'
They dashed simultaneously for the spot where the crowd was thinnest.
The ring which had formed round Mike and Bill had broken up as the
result of the intervention of Bill's allies, and at the spot for which
they ran only two men were standing. And these had apparently made up
their minds that neutrality was the best policy, for they made no
movement to stop them. Psmith and Mike charged through the gap, and
raced for the road.
The suddenness of the move gave them just the start they needed. Mike
looked over his shoulder. The crowd, to a man, seemed to be following.
Bill, excavated from beneath the publican, led the field. Lying a good
second came a band of three, and after them the rest in a bunch.
They reached the road in this order.
Some fifty yards down the road was a stationary tram. In the ordinary
course of things it would probably have moved on long before Psmith and
Mike could have got to it; but the conductor, a man with sporting blood
in him, seeing what appeared to be the finish of some Marathon Race,
refrained from giving the signal, and moved out into the road to
observe events more clearly, at the same time calling to the driver,
who joined him. Passengers on the roof stood up to get a good view.
There was some cheering.
Psmith and Mike reached the tram ten yards to the good; and, if it had
been ready to start then, all would have been well. But Bill and his
friends had arrived while the driver and conductor were both out in the
road.
The affair now began to resemble the doings of Horatius on the bridge.
Psmith and Mike turned to bay on the platform at the foot of the tram
steps. Bill, leading by three yards, sprang on to it, grabbed Mike, and
fell with him on to the road. Psmith, descending with a dignity
somewhat lessened by the fact that his hat was on the side of his head,
was in time to engage the runners-up.
Psmith, as pugilist, lacked something of the calm majesty which
characterized him in the more peaceful moments of life, but he was
undoubtedly effective. Nature had given him an enormous reach and a
lightness on his feet remarkable in one of his size; and at some time
in his career he appeared to have learned how to use his hands. The
first of the three runners, the walking-stick manipulator, had the
misfortune to charge straight into the old Etonian's left. It was a
well-timed blow, and the force of it, added to the speed at which the
victim was running, sent him on to the pavement, where he spun round
and sat down. In the subsequent proceedings he took no part.
The other two attacked Psmith simultaneously, one on each side. In
doing so, the one on the left tripped over Mike and Bill, who were
still in the process of sorting themselves out, and fell, leaving
Psmith free to attend to the other. He was a tall, weedy youth. His
conspicuous features were a long nose and a light yellow waistcoat.
Psmith hit him on the former with his left and on the latter with his
right. The long youth emitted a gurgle, and collided with Bill, who had
wrenched himself free from Mike and staggered to his feet. Bill, having
received a second blow in the eye during the course of his interview on
the road with Mike, was not feeling himself. Mistaking the other for an
enemy, he proceeded to smite him in the parts about the jaw. He had
just upset him, when a stern official voice observed, ''Ere, now,
what's all this?'
There is no more unfailing corrective to a scene of strife than the
'What's all this?' of the London policeman. Bill abandoned his
intention of stamping on the prostrate one, and the latter, sitting up,
blinked and was silent.
'What's all this?' asked the policeman again. Psmith, adjusting his hat
at the correct angle again, undertook the explanations.
'A distressing scene, officer,' he said. 'A case of that unbridled
brawling which is, alas, but too common in our London streets. These
two, possibly till now the closest friends, fall out over some point,
probably of the most trivial nature, and what happens? They brawl.
They--'
'He 'it me,' said the long youth, dabbing at his face with a
handkerchief and pointing an accusing finger at Psmith, who regarded
him through his eyeglass with a look in which pity and censure were
nicely blended.
Bill, meanwhile, circling round restlessly, in the apparent hope of
getting past the Law and having another encounter with Mike, expressed
himself in a stream of language which drew stern reproof from the
shocked constable.
'You 'op it,' concluded the man in blue. 'That's what you do. You 'op
it.'
'I should,' said Psmith kindly. 'The officer is speaking in your best
interests. A man of taste and discernment, he knows what is best. His
advice is good, and should be followed.'
The constable seemed to notice Psmith for the first time. He turned and
stared at him. Psmith's praise had not had the effect of softening him.
His look was one of suspicion.
'And what might _you_ have been up to?' he inquired coldly. 'This
man says you hit him.'
Psmith waved the matter aside.
'Purely in self-defence,' he said, 'purely in self-defence. What else
could the man of spirit do? A mere tap to discourage an aggressive
movement.'
The policeman stood silent, weighing matters in the balance. He
produced a notebook and sucked his pencil. Then he called the conductor
of the tram as a witness.
'A brainy and admirable step,' said Psmith, approvingly. 'This rugged,
honest man, all unused to verbal subtleties, shall give us his plain
account of what happened. After which, as I presume this tram--little
as I know of the habits of trams--has got to go somewhere today, I
would suggest that we all separated and moved on.'
He took two half-crowns from his pocket, and began to clink them
meditatively together. A slight softening of the frigidity of the
constable's manner became noticeable. There was a milder beam in the
eyes which gazed into Psmith's.
Nor did the conductor seem altogether uninfluenced by the sight.
The conductor deposed that he had bin on the point of pushing on,
seeing as how he'd hung abart long enough, when he see'd them two
gents, the long 'un with the heye-glass (Psmith bowed) and t'other 'un,
a-legging of it dahn the road towards him, with the other blokes
pelting after 'em. He added that, when they reached the trem, the two
gents had got aboard, and was then set upon by the blokes. And after
that, he concluded, well, there was a bit of a scrap, and that's how it
was.
'Lucidly and excellently put,' said Psmith. 'That is just how it was.
Comrade Jackson, I fancy we leave the court without a stain on our
characters. We win through. Er--constable, we have given you a great
deal of trouble. Possibly--?'
'Thank you, sir.' There was a musical clinking. 'Now then, all of you,
you 'op it. You're all bin poking your noses in 'ere long enough. Pop
off. Get on with that tram, conductor.' Psmith and Mike settled
themselves in a seat on the roof. When the conductor came along, Psmith
gave him half a crown, and asked after his wife and the little ones at
home. The conductor thanked goodness that he was a bachelor, punched
the tickets, and retired.
'Subject for a historical picture,' said Psmith. 'Wounded leaving the
field after the Battle of Clapham Common. How are your injuries,
Comrade Jackson?'
'My back's hurting like blazes,' said Mike. 'And my ear's all sore
where that chap got me. Anything the matter with you?'
'Physically,' said Psmith, 'no. Spiritually much. Do you realize,
Comrade Jackson, the thing that has happened? I am riding in a tram. I,
Psmith, have paid a penny for a ticket on a tram. If this should get
about the clubs! I tell you, Comrade Jackson, no such crisis has ever
occurred before in the course of my career.'
'You can always get off, you know,' said Mike.
'He thinks of everything,' said Psmith, admiringly. 'You have touched
the spot with an unerring finger. Let us descend. I observe in the
distance a cab. That looks to me more the sort of thing we want. Let us
go and parley with the driver.'
17. Sunday Supper
The cab took them back to the flat, at considerable expense, and Psmith
requested Mike to make tea, a performance in which he himself was
interested purely as a spectator. He had views on the subject of
tea-making which he liked to expound from an armchair or sofa, but he
never got further than this. Mike, his back throbbing dully from the
blow he had received, and feeling more than a little sore all over,
prepared the Etna, fetched the milk, and finally produced the finished
article.
Psmith sipped meditatively.
'How pleasant,' he said, 'after strife is rest. We shouldn't have
appreciated this simple cup of tea had our sensibilities remained
unstirred this afternoon. We can now sit at our ease, like warriors
after the fray, till the time comes for setting out to Comrade Waller's
once more.'
Mike looked up.
'What! You don't mean to say you're going to sweat out to Clapham
again?'
'Undoubtedly. Comrade Waller is expecting us to supper.'
'What absolute rot! We can't fag back there.'
'Noblesse oblige. The cry has gone round the Waller household, "Jackson
and Psmith are coming to supper," and we cannot disappoint them now.
Already the fatted blanc-mange has been killed, and the table creaks
beneath what's left of the midday beef. We must be there; besides,
don't you want to see how the poor man is? Probably we shall find him
in the act of emitting his last breath. I expect he was lynched by the
enthusiastic mob.'
'Not much,' grinned Mike. 'They were too busy with us. All right, I'll
come if you really want me to, but it's awful rot.'
One of the many things Mike could never understand in Psmith was his
fondness for getting into atmospheres that were not his own. He would
go out of his way to do this. Mike, like most boys of his age, was
never really happy and at his ease except in the presence of those of
his own years and class. Psmith, on the contrary, seemed to be bored by
them, and infinitely preferred talking to somebody who lived in quite
another world. Mike was not a snob. He simply had not the ability to be
at his ease with people in another class from his own. He did not know
what to talk to them about, unless they were cricket professionals.
With them he was never at a loss.
But Psmith was different. He could get on with anyone. He seemed to
have the gift of entering into their minds and seeing things from their
point of view.
As regarded Mr Waller, Mike liked him personally, and was prepared, as
we have seen, to undertake considerable risks in his defence; but he
loathed with all his heart and soul the idea of supper at his house. He
knew that he would have nothing to say. Whereas Psmith gave him the
impression of looking forward to the thing as a treat.
* * * * *
The house where Mr Waller lived was one of a row of semi-detached
villas on the north side of the Common. The door was opened to them by
their host himself. So far from looking battered and emitting last
breaths, he appeared particularly spruce. He had just returned from
Church, and was still wearing his gloves and tall hat. He squeaked with
surprise when he saw who were standing on the mat.
'Why, dear me, dear me,' he said. 'Here you are! I have been wondering
what had happened to you. I was afraid that you might have been
seriously hurt. I was afraid those ruffians might have injured you.
When last I saw you, you were being--'
'Chivvied,' interposed Psmith, with dignified melancholy. 'Do not let
us try to wrap the fact up in pleasant words. We were being chivvied.
We were legging it with the infuriated mob at our heels. An ignominious
position for a Shropshire Psmith, but, after all, Napoleon did the
same.'
'But what happened? I could not see. I only know that quite suddenly
the people seemed to stop listening to me, and all gathered round you
and Jackson. And then I saw that Jackson was engaged in a fight with a
young man.'
'Comrade Jackson, I imagine, having heard a great deal about all men
being equal, was anxious to test the theory, and see whether Comrade
Bill was as good a man as he was. The experiment was broken off
prematurely, but I personally should be inclined to say that Comrade
Jackson had a shade the better of the exchanges.'
Mr Waller looked with interest at Mike, who shuffled and felt awkward.
He was hoping that Psmith would say nothing about the reason of his
engaging Bill in combat. He had an uneasy feeling that Mr Waller's
gratitude would be effusive and overpowering, and he did not wish to
pose as the brave young hero. There are moments when one does not feel
equal to the _role_.
Fortunately, before Mr Waller had time to ask any further questions,
the supper-bell sounded, and they went into the dining-room.
Sunday supper, unless done on a large and informal scale, is probably
the most depressing meal in existence. There is a chill discomfort in
the round of beef, an icy severity about the open jam tart. The
blancmange shivers miserably.
Spirituous liquor helps to counteract the influence of these things,
and so does exhilarating conversation. Unfortunately, at Mr Waller's
table there was neither. The cashier's views on temperance were not
merely for the platform; they extended to the home. And the company was
not of the exhilarating sort. Besides Psmith and Mike and their host,
there were four people present--Comrade Prebble, the orator; a young
man of the name of Richards; Mr Waller's niece, answering to the name
of Ada, who was engaged to Mr Richards; and Edward.
Edward was Mr Waller's son. He was ten years old, wore a very tight
Eton suit, and had the peculiarly loathsome expression which a snub
nose sometimes gives to the young.
It would have been plain to the most casual observer that Mr Waller was
fond and proud of his son. The cashier was a widower, and after five
minutes' acquaintance with Edward, Mike felt strongly that Mrs Waller
was the lucky one. Edward sat next to Mike, and showed a tendency to
concentrate his conversation on him. Psmith, at the opposite end of the
table, beamed in a fatherly manner upon the pair through his eyeglass.
Mike got on with small girls reasonably well. He preferred them at a
distance, but, if cornered by them, could put up a fairly good show.
Small boys, however, filled him with a sort of frozen horror. It was
his view that a boy should not be exhibited publicly until he reached
an age when he might be in the running for some sort of colours at a
public school.
Edward was one of those well-informed small boys. He opened on Mike
with the first mouthful.
'Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles?' he inquired.
'What?' said Mike coldly.
'Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles? I do.'
'Oh?' said Mike.
'Yes. Do you know the capital of Madagascar?'
Mike, as crimson as the beef he was attacking, said he did not.
'I do.'
'Oh?' said Mike.
'Who was the first king--'
'You mustn't worry Mr Jackson, Teddy,' said Mr Waller, with a touch of
pride in his voice, as who should say 'There are not many boys of his
age, I can tell you, who _could_ worry you with questions like
that.'
'No, no, he likes it,' said Psmith, unnecessarily. 'He likes it. I
always hold that much may be learned by casual chit-chat across the
dinner-table. I owe much of my own grasp of--'
'I bet _you_ don't know what's the capital of Madagascar,'
interrupted Mike rudely.
'I do,' said Edward. 'I can tell you the kings of Israel?' he added,
turning to Mike. He seemed to have no curiosity as to the extent of
Psmith's knowledge. Mike's appeared to fascinate him.
Mike helped himself to beetroot in moody silence.
His mouth was full when Comrade Prebble asked him a question. Comrade
Prebble, as has been pointed out in an earlier part of the narrative,
was a good chap, but had no roof to his mouth.
'I beg your pardon?' said Mike.
Comrade Prebble repeated his observation. Mike looked helplessly at
Psmith, but Psmith's eyes were on his plate.
Mike felt he must venture on some answer.
'No,' he said decidedly.
Comrade Prebble seemed slightly taken aback. There was an awkward
pause. Then Mr Waller, for whom his fellow Socialist's methods of
conversation held no mysteries, interpreted.
'The mustard, Prebble? Yes, yes. Would you mind passing Prebble the
mustard, Mr Jackson?'
'Oh, sorry,' gasped Mike, and, reaching out, upset the water-jug into
the open jam-tart.
Through the black mist which rose before his eyes as he leaped to his
feet and stammered apologies came the dispassionate voice of Master
Edward Waller reminding him that mustard was first introduced into Peru
by Cortez.
His host was all courtesy and consideration. He passed the matter off
genially. But life can never be quite the same after you have upset a
water-jug into an open jam-tart at the table of a comparative stranger.
Mike's nerve had gone. He ate on, but he was a broken man.
At the other end of the table it became gradually apparent that things
were not going on altogether as they should have done. There was a sort
of bleakness in the atmosphere. Young Mr Richards was looking like a
stuffed fish, and the face of Mr Waller's niece was cold and set.
'Why, come, come, Ada,' said Mr Waller, breezily, 'what's the matter?
You're eating nothing. What's George been saying to you?' he added
jocularly.
'Thank you, uncle Robert,' replied Ada precisely, 'there's nothing the
matter. Nothing that Mr Richards can say to me can upset me.'
'Mr Richards!' echoed Mr Waller in astonishment. How was he to know
that, during the walk back from church, the world had been transformed,
George had become Mr Richards, and all was over?
'I assure you, Ada--' began that unfortunate young man. Ada turned a
frigid shoulder towards him.
'Come, come,' said Mr Waller disturbed. 'What's all this? What's all
this?'
His niece burst into tears and left the room.
If there is anything more embarrassing to a guest than a family row, we
have yet to hear of it. Mike, scarlet to the extreme edges of his ears,
concentrated himself on his plate. Comrade Prebble made a great many
remarks, which were probably illuminating, if they could have been
understood. Mr Waller looked, astonished, at Mr Richards. Mr Richards,
pink but dogged, loosened his collar, but said nothing. Psmith, leaning
forward, asked Master Edward Waller his opinion on the Licensing Bill.
'We happened to have a word or two,' said Mr Richards at length, 'on
the way home from church on the subject of Women's Suffrage.'
'That fatal topic!' murmured Psmith.
'In Australia--' began Master Edward Waller.
'I was rayther--well, rayther facetious about it,' continued Mr
Richards.
Psmith clicked his tongue sympathetically.
'In Australia--' said Edward.
'I went talking on, laughing and joking, when all of a sudden she flew
out at me. How was I to know she was 'eart and soul in the movement?
You never told me,' he added accusingly to his host.
'In Australia--' said Edward.
'I'll go and try and get her round. How was I to know?'
Mr Richards thrust back his chair and bounded from the room.
'Now, iawinyaw, iear oiler--' said Comrade Prebble judicially, but was
interrupted.
'How very disturbing!' said Mr Waller. 'I am so sorry that this should
have happened. Ada is such a touchy, sensitive girl. She--'
'In Australia,' said Edward in even tones, 'they've _got_ Women's
Suffrage already. Did _you_ know that?' he said to Mike.
Mike made no answer. His eyes were fixed on his plate. A bead of
perspiration began to roll down his forehead. If his feelings could
have been ascertained at that moment, they would have been summed up in
the words, 'Death, where is thy sting?'
18. Psmith Makes a Discovery
'Women,' said Psmith, helping himself to trifle, and speaking with the
air of one launched upon his special subject, 'are, one must recollect,
like--like--er, well, in fact, just so. Passing on lightly from that
conclusion, let us turn for a moment to the Rights of Property, in
connection with which Comrade Prebble and yourself had so much that was
interesting to say this afternoon. Perhaps you'--he bowed in Comrade
Prebble's direction--'would resume, for the benefit of Comrade Jackson--a
novice in the Cause, but earnest--your very lucid--'
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