29. And Mike's
For nearly two hours Mike had been experiencing the keenest pleasurethat it had ever fallen to his lot to feel. From the moment he took hisfirst ball till the luncheon interval he had suffered the acutestdiscomfort. His nervousness had left him to a great extent, but he hadnever really settled down. Sometimes by luck, and sometimes by skill,he had kept the ball out of his wicket; but he was scratching, and heknew it. Not for a single over had he been comfortable. On severaloccasions he had edged balls to leg and through the slips in quite aninferior manner, and it was seldom that he managed to hit with thecentre of the bat.
Nobody is more alive to the fact that he is not playing up to his trueform than the batsman. Even though his score mounted little by littleinto the twenties, Mike was miserable. If this was the best he could doon a perfect wicket, he felt there was not much hope for him as aprofessional.
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 thewood with a graceful robustness which drew much cheering from thecrowd. Beside him Mike was oppressed by that leaden sense of moralinferiority which weighs on a man who has turned up to dinner inordinary clothes when everybody else has dressed. He felt awkward andconspicuously out of place.
Then came lunch--and after lunch a glorious change.
Volumes might be written on the cricket lunch and the influence it hason the run of the game; how it undoes one man, and sends another backto the fray like a giant refreshed; how it turns the brilliant fastbowler into the sluggish medium, and the nervous bat into the masterfulsmiter.
On Mike its effect was magical. He lunched wisely and well, chewing hisfood with the concentration of a thirty-three-bites a mouthful crank,and drinking dry ginger-ale. As he walked out with Joe after theinterval he knew that a change had taken place in him. His nerve hadcome back, and with it his form.
It sometimes happens at cricket that when one feels particularly fitone gets snapped in the slips in the first over, or clean bowled by afull toss; but neither of these things happened to Mike. He stayed in,and began to score. Now there were no edgings through the slips andsnicks to leg. He was meeting the ball in the centre of the bat, andmeeting it vigorously. Two boundaries in successive balls off the fastbowler, hard, clean drives past extra-cover, put him at peace with allthe world. He was on top. He had found himself.
Joe, at the other end, resumed his brilliant career. His century andMike's fifty arrived in the same over. The bowling began to grow loose.
Joe, having reached his century, slowed down somewhat, and Mike took upthe 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'sscore passed from sixty to seventy, from seventy to eighty, from eightyto ninety. When the Smiths, father and son, came on to the ground thetotal was ninety-eight. Joe had made a hundred and thirty-three.
* * * * *
Mike reached his century just as Psmith and his father took theirseats. A square cut off the slow bowler was just too wide for point toget to. By the time third man had sprinted across and returned the ballthe batsmen had run two.
Mr Smith was enthusiastic.
'I tell you,' he said to Psmith, who was clapping in a gentlyencouraging manner, 'the boy's a wonderful bat. I said so when he wasdown with us. I remember telling him so myself. "I've seen yourbrothers play," I said, "and you're better than any of them." Iremember it distinctly. He'll be playing for England in another year ortwo. 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. Itwas necessary for Comrade Jackson to do something by way of saving theOld Home.'
'He ought to be at the University. Look, he's got that man away to theboundary again. They'll never get him out.'
At six o'clock the partnership was broken, Joe running himself out intrying to snatch a single where no single was. He had made a hundredand eighty-nine.
Mike flung himself down on the turf with mixed feelings. He was sorryJoe was out, but he was very glad indeed of the chance of a rest. Hewas utterly fagged. A half-day match once a week is no training forfirst-class cricket. Joe, who had been playing all the season, was astough as india-rubber, and trotted into the pavilion as fresh as if hehad 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 leftthere indefinitely. There was only another half-hour's play, but hedoubted if he could get through it.
He dragged himself up wearily as Joe's successor arrived at thewickets. He had crossed Joe before the latter's downfall, and it washis turn to take the bowling.
Something seemed to have gone out of him. He could not time the ballproperly. The last ball of the over looked like a half-volley, and hehit out at it. But it was just short of a half-volley, and his strokearrived 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 swellingapplause in a sort of dream. It seemed to him hours before he reachedthe dressing-room.
He was sitting on a chair, wishing that somebody would come along andtake off his pads, when Psmith's card was brought to him. A few momentslater 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 isone of those gin and ginger-beers we hear so much about. Remove thosepads, and let us flit downstairs in search of a couple. Well, ComradeJackson, you have fought the good fight this day. My father sends hiscompliments. He is dining out, or he would have come up. He is going tolook in at the flat latish.'
'How many did I get?' asked Mike. 'I was so jolly done I didn't thinkof looking.'
'A hundred and forty-eight of the best,' said Psmith. 'What will theysay at the old homestead about this? Are you ready? Then let us testthis fruity old ginger-beer of theirs.'
The two batsmen who had followed the big stand were apparently having alittle stand all of their own. No more wickets fell before the drawingof stumps. Psmith waited for Mike while he changed, and carried him offin 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 toeat till you were helpless, if you felt so disposed, without extracharge.
Mike stopped short of this giddy height of mastication, but consumedenough to make him feel a great deal better. Psmith eyed his inroads onthe 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 shallfind 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 tocheer Comrade B. up. Fate compels me to deal him a nasty blow, and hewill want sympathy. I have got to break it to him that I am leaving thebank.'
'What, are you going to chuck it?'
Psmith inclined his head.
'The time,' he said, 'has come to part. It has served its turn. Thestartled 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 theintricacies of the Law, with a view to having a subsequent dash atbecoming 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 cando.'
'I can offer you a not entirely scaly job,' said Smith, 'if you feellike taking it. In the course
of conversation with my father during thematch this afternoon, I gleaned the fact that he is anxious to secureyour 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 acceptthe 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 yourunwrinkled brow. But my father does not wish you to enter upon yourduties immediately. There would be a preliminary interval of three,possibly four, years at Cambridge, during which I presume, you would belearning divers facts concerning spuds, turmuts, and the like. Atleast,' said Psmith airily, 'I suppose so. Far be it from me to dictatethe line of your researches.'
'Then I'm afraid it's off,' said Mike gloomily. 'My pater couldn'tafford 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 thepresent moment, of my confidential secretary and adviser. Any expensesthat 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 atthe 'Varsity? No I say--dash it--I mean, I couldn't--'
'Do you suggest,' said Psmith, raising his eyebrows, 'that I should goto 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 inmy hour of need, Comrade Jackson. "What will you do," asked my father,alarmed for my safety, "among these wild undergraduates? I fear for myRupert." "Have no fear, father," I replied. "Comrade Jackson will bebeside me." His face brightened immediately. "Comrade Jackson," hesaid, "is a man in whom I have the supremest confidence. If he is withyou I shall sleep easy of nights." It was after that that theconversation drifted to the subject of agents.'
Psmith called for the bill and paid it in the affable manner of amonarch signing a charter. Mike sat silent, his mind in a whirl. He sawexactly what had happened. He could almost hear Psmith talking hisfather into agreeing with his scheme. He could think of nothing to say.As usually happened in any emotional crisis in his life, wordsabsolutely deserted him. The thing was too big. Anything he could saywould sound too feeble. When a friend has solved all your difficultiesand 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 occasiondemanded some neat, polished speech; and neat, polished speeches werebeyond 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, allunconscious of impending misfortune, dreaming pleasantly over coffeeand a cigar in the lower smoking-room.'
30. The Last Sad Farewells
As it happened, that was precisely what Mr Bickersdyke was doing. Hewas feeling thoroughly pleased with life. For nearly nine months Psmithhad been to him a sort of spectre at the feast inspiring him with anever-present feeling of discomfort which he had found impossible toshake off. And tonight he saw his way of getting rid of him.
At five minutes past four Mr Gregory, crimson and wrathful, had plungedinto his room with a long statement of how Psmith, deputed to help inthe life and thought of the Fixed Deposits Department, had left thebuilding at four o'clock, when there was still another hour and ahalf's work to be done.
Moreover, Mr Gregory deposed, the errant one, seen sliding out of theswinging door, and summoned in a loud, clear voice to come back, hadflatly disobeyed and had gone upon his ways 'Grinning at me,' said theaggrieved Mr Gregory, 'like a dashed ape.' A most unjust description ofthe sad, sweet smile which Psmith had bestowed upon him from thedoorway.
Ever since that moment Mr Bickersdyke had felt that there was a silverlining to the cloud. Hitherto Psmith had left nothing to be desired inthe manner in which he performed his work. His righteousness in theoffice had clothed him as in a suit of mail. But now he had slipped. Togo off an hour and a half before the proper time, and to refuse toreturn when summoned by the head of his department--these were offencesfor which he could be dismissed without fuss. Mr Bickersdyke lookedforward to tomorrow's interview with his employee.
Meanwhile, having enjoyed an excellent dinner, he was now, as Psmithhad predicted, engaged with a cigar and a cup of coffee in the lowersmoking-room of the Senior Conservative Club.
Psmith and Mike entered the room when he was about half through theseluxuries.
Psmith's first action was to summon a waiter, and order a glass of neatbrandy. 'Not for myself,' he explained to Mike. 'For ComradeBickersdyke. He is about to sustain a nasty shock, and may need arestorative at a moment's notice. For all we know, his heart may not bestrong. 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. Inhis hand, extended at arm's length, he bore the glass of brandy.
Mr Bickersdyke caught sight of the procession, and started. Psmith setthe brandy down very carefully on the table, beside the manager'scoffee cup, and, dropping into a chair, regarded him pityingly throughhis eyeglass. Mike, who felt embarrassed, took a seat some little waybehind his companion. This was Psmith's affair, and he proposed toallow him to do the talking.
Mr Bickersdyke, except for a slight deepening of the colour of hiscomplexion, gave no sign of having seen them. He puffed away at hiscigar, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
'An unpleasant task lies before us,' began Psmith in a low, sorrowfulvoice, 'and it must not be shirked. Have I your ear, Mr Bickersdyke?'
Addressed thus directly, the manager allowed his gaze to wander fromthe ceiling. He eyed Psmith for a moment like an elderly basilisk, thenlooked 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 littlenearer.
Mr Bickersdyke's eyes left the ceiling once more.
'What do you mean?' he said.
'Drink this,' urged Psmith sympathetically, holding out the glass. 'Bebrave,' he went on rapidly. 'Time softens the harshest blows. Shocksstun us for the moment, but we recover. Little by little we come toourselves again. Life, which we had thought could hold no more pleasurefor us, gradually shows itself not wholly grey.'
Mr Bickersdyke seemed about to make an observation at this point, butPsmith, with a wave of the hand, hurried on.
'We find that the sun still shines, the birds still sing. Things whichused to entertain us resume their attraction. Gradually we emerge fromthe soup, and begin--'
'If you have anything to say to me,' said the manager, 'I should beglad if you would say it, and go.'
'You prefer me not to break the bad news gently?' said Psmith. 'Perhapsyou are wise. In a word, then,'--he picked up the brandy and held itout 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 arestunned. I am sorry, but it had to be. You will say that it is madnessfor us to offer our resignations, that our grip on the work of the bankmade a prosperous career in Commerce certain for us. It may be so. Butsomehow we feel that our talents lie elsewhere. To Comrade Jackson themanagement of the Psmith estates seems the job on which he can get therapid half-Nelson. For my own part, I feel that my long suit is theBar. I am a poor, unready speaker, but I intend to acquire a knowledgeof the Law which shall outweigh this defect. Before leaving you, Ishould like to say--I may speak for you as well as myself, ComradeJackson--?'
Mike uttered his first contribution to the conversation--a gurgle--andrelapsed into silence again.
'I should like to say,' continued Psmith, 'h
ow much Comrade Jackson andI have enjoyed our stay in the bank. The insight it has given us intoyour masterly handling of the intricate mechanism of the office hasbeen a treat we would not have missed. But our place is elsewhere.'
He rose. Mike followed his example with alacrity. It occurred to MrBickersdyke, as they turned to go, that he had not yet been able to getin a word about their dismissal. They were drifting away with all thehonours of war.
'Come back,' he cried.
Psmith paused and shook his head sadly.
'This is unmanly, Comrade Bickersdyke,' he said. 'I had not expectedthis. That you should be dazed by the shock was natural. But that youshould beg us to reconsider our resolve and return to the bank isunworthy of you. Be a man. Bite the bullet. The first keen pang willpass. 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 tothe flat. My father will be round there soon.' He looked over hisshoulder. Mr Bickersdyke appeared to be wrapped in thought.
'A painful business,' sighed Psmith. 'The man seems quite broken up. Ithad to be, however. The bank was no place for us. An excellent careerin many respects, but unsuitable for you and me. It is hard on ComradeBickersdyke, especially as he took such trouble to get me into it, butI think we may say that we are well out of the place.'
Mike's mind roamed into the future. Cambridge first, and then anopen-air life of the sort he had always dreamed of. The Problem ofLife seemed to him to be solved. He looked on down the years, and hecould see no troubles there of any kind whatsoever. Reason suggestedthat there were probably one or two knocking about somewhere, but thiswas 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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