by Unknown
It naturally followed that, after having grown, little by little, under Mr Waller’s easy-going rule, to enjoy life in the bank, he now suffered a reaction. Within a day of his arrival in the Fixed Deposits he was loathing the place as earnestly as he had loathed it on the first morning.
Psmith, who had taken his place in the Cash Department, reported that Mr Waller was inconsolable at his loss.
‘I do my best to cheer him up,’ he said, ‘and he smiles bravely every now and then. But when he thinks I am not looking, his head droops and that wistful expression comes into his face. The sunshine has gone out of his life.’
It had just come into Mike’s, and, more than anything else, was making him restless and discontented. That is to say, it was now late spring: the sun shone cheerfully on the City; and cricket was in the air. And that was the trouble.
In the dark days, when everything was fog and slush, Mike had been contented enough to spend his mornings and afternoons in the bank, and go about with Psmith at night. Under such conditions, London is the best place in which to be, and the warmth and light of the bank were pleasant.
But now things had changed. The place had become a prison. With all the energy of one who had been born and bred in the country, Mike hated having to stay indoors on days when all the air was full of approaching summer. There were mornings when it was almost more than he could do to push open the swing doors, and go out of the fresh air into the stuffy atmosphere of the bank.
The days passed slowly, and the cricket season began. Instead of being a relief, this made matters worse. The little cricket he could get only made him want more. It was as if a starving man had been given a handful of wafer biscuits.
If the summer had been wet, he might have been less restless. But, as it happened, it was unusually fine. After a week of cold weather at the beginning of May, a hot spell set in. May passed in a blaze of sunshine. Large scores were made all over the country.
Mike’s name had been down for the M.C.C. for some years, and he had become a member during his last season at Wrykyn. Once or twice a week he managed to get up to Lord’s for half an hour’s practice at the nets; and on Saturdays the bank had matches, in which he generally managed to knock the cover off rather ordinary club bowling. But it was not enough for him.
June came, and with it more sunshine. The atmosphere of the bank seemed more oppressive than ever.
25. At the Telephone
If one looks closely into those actions which are apparently due to sudden impulse, one generally finds that the sudden impulse was merely the last of a long series of events which led up to the action. Alone, it would not have been powerful enough to effect anything. But, coming after the way has been paved for it, it is irresistible. The hooligan who bonnets a policeman is apparently the victim of a sudden impulse. In reality, however, the bonneting is due to weeks of daily encounters with the constable, at each of which meetings the dislike for his helmet and the idea of smashing it in grow a little larger, till finally they blossom into the deed itself.
This was what happened in Mike’s case. Day by day, through the summer, as the City grew hotter and stuffier, his hatred of the bank became more and more the thought that occupied his mind. It only needed a moderately strong temptation to make him break out and take the consequences.
Psmith noticed his restlessness and endeavoured to soothe it.
‘All is not well,’ he said, ‘with Comrade Jackson, the Sunshine of the Home. I note a certain wanness of the cheek. The peach-bloom of your complexion is no longer up to sample. Your eye is wild; your merry laugh no longer rings through the bank, causing nervous customers to leap into the air with startled exclamations. You have the manner of one whose only friend on earth is a yellow dog, and who has lost the dog. Why is this, Comrade Jackson?’
They were talking in the flat at Clement’s Inn. The night was hot. Through the open windows the roar of the Strand sounded faintly. Mike walked to the window and looked out.
‘I’m sick of all this rot,’ he said shortly.
Psmith shot an inquiring glance at him, but said nothing. This restlessness of Mike’s was causing him a good deal of inconvenience, which he bore in patient silence, hoping for better times. With Mike obviously discontented and out of tune with all the world, there was but little amusement to be extracted from the evenings now. Mike did his best to be cheerful, but he could not shake off the caged feeling which made him restless.
‘What rot it all is!’ went on Mike, sitting down again. ‘What’s the good of it all? You go and sweat all day at a desk, day after day, for about twopence a year. And when you’re about eighty-five, you retire. It isn’t living at all. It’s simply being a bally vegetable.’
‘You aren’t hankering, by any chance, to be a pirate of the Spanish main, or anything like that, are you?’ inquired Psmith.
‘And all this rot about going out East,’ continued Mike. ‘What’s the good of going out East?’
‘I gather from casual chit-chat in the office that one becomes something of a blood when one goes out East,’ said Psmith. ‘Have a dozen native clerks under you, all looking up to you as the Last Word in magnificence, and end by marrying the Governor’s daughter.’
‘End by getting some foul sort of fever, more likely, and being booted out as no further use to the bank.’
‘You look on the gloomy side, Comrade Jackson. I seem to see you sitting in an armchair, fanned by devoted coolies, telling some Eastern potentate that you can give him five minutes. I understand that being in a bank in the Far East is one of the world’s softest jobs. Millions of natives hang on your lightest word. Enthusiastic rajahs draw you aside and press jewels into your hand as a token of respect and esteem. When on an elephant’s back you pass, somebody beats on a booming brass gong! The Banker of Bhong! Isn’t your generous young heart stirred to any extent by the prospect? I am given to understand—’
‘I’ve a jolly good mind to chuck up the whole thing and become a pro. I’ve got a birth qualification for Surrey. It’s about the only thing I could do any good at.’
Psmith’s manner became fatherly.
‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘The hot weather has given you that tired feeling. What you want is a change of air. We will pop down together hand in hand this weekend to some seaside resort. You shall build sand castles, while I lie on the beach and read the paper. In the evening we will listen to the band, or stroll on the esplanade, not so much because we want to, as to give the natives a treat. Possibly, if the weather continues warm, we may even paddle. A vastly exhilarating pastime, I am led to believe, and so strengthening for the ankles. And on Monday morning we will return, bronzed and bursting with health, to our toil once more.’
‘I’m going to bed,’ said Mike, rising.
Psmith watched him lounge from the room, and shook his head sadly. All was not well with his confidential secretary and adviser.
The next day, which was a Thursday, found Mike no more reconciled to the prospect of spending from ten till five in the company of Mr Gregory and the ledgers. He was silent at breakfast, and Psmith, seeing that things were still wrong, abstained from conversation. Mike propped the Sportsman up against the hot-water jug, and read the cricket news. His county, captained by brother Joe, had, as he had learned already from yesterday’s evening paper, beaten Sussex by five wickets at Brighton. Today they were due to play Middlesex at Lord’s. Mike thought that he would try to get off early, and go and see some of the first day’s play.
As events turned out, he got off a good deal earlier, and saw a good deal more of the first day’s play than he had anticipated.
He had just finished the preliminary stages of the morning’s work, which consisted mostly of washing his hands, changing his coat, and eating a section of a penholder, when William, the messenger, approached.
‘You’re wanted on the ‘phone, Mr Jackson.’
The New Asiatic Bank, unlike the majority of London banks, was on the telephone, a fact which P
smith found a great convenience when securing seats at the theatre. Mike went to the box and took up the receiver.
‘Hullo!’ he said.
‘Who’s that?’ said an agitated voice. ‘Is that you, Mike? I’m Joe.’
‘Hullo, Joe,’ said Mike. ‘What’s up? I’m coming to see you this evening. I’m going to try and get off early.’
‘Look here, Mike, are you busy at the bank just now?’
‘Not at the moment. There’s never anything much going on before eleven.’
‘I mean, are you busy today? Could you possibly manage to get off and play for us against Middlesex?’
Mike nearly dropped the receiver.
‘What?’ he cried.
‘There’s been the dickens of a mix-up. We’re one short, and you’re our only hope. We can’t possibly get another man in the time. We start in half an hour. Can you play?’
For the space of, perhaps, one minute, Mike thought.
‘Well?’ said Joe’s voice.
The sudden vision of Lord’s ground, all green and cool in the morning sunlight, was too much for Mike’s resolution, sapped as it was by days of restlessness. The feeling surged over him that whatever happened afterwards, the joy of the match in perfect weather on a perfect wicket would make it worth while. What did it matter what happened afterwards?
‘All right, Joe,’ he said. ‘I’ll hop into a cab now, and go and get my things.’
‘Good man,’ said Joe, hugely relieved.
26. Breaking The News
Dashing away from the call-box, Mike nearly cannoned into Psmith, who was making his way pensively to the telephone with the object of ringing up the box office of the Haymarket Theatre.
‘Sorry,’ said Mike. ‘Hullo, Smith.’
‘Hullo indeed,’ said Psmith, courteously. ‘I rejoice, Comrade Jackson, to find you going about your commercial duties like a young bomb. How is it, people repeatedly ask me, that Comrade Jackson contrives to catch his employer’s eye and win the friendly smile from the head of his department? My reply is that where others walk, Comrade Jackson runs. Where others stroll, Comrade Jackson legs it like a highly-trained mustang of the prairie. He does not loiter. He gets back to his department bathed in perspiration, in level time. He—’
‘I say, Smith,’ said Mike, ‘you might do me a favour.’
‘A thousand. Say on.’
‘Just look in at the Fixed Deposits and tell old Gregory that I shan’t be with him today, will you? I haven’t time myself. I must rush!’
Psmith screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and examined Mike carefully.
‘What exactly—?’ be began.
‘Tell the old ass I’ve popped off.’
‘Just so, just so,’ murmured Psmith, as one who assents to a thoroughly reasonable proposition. ‘Tell him you have popped off. It shall be done. But it is within the bounds of possibility that Comrade Gregory may inquire further. Could you give me some inkling as to why you are popping?’
‘My brother Joe has just rung me up from Lords. The county are playing Middlesex and they’re one short. He wants me to roll up.’
Psmith shook his head sadly.
‘I don’t wish to interfere in any way,’ he said, ‘but I suppose you realize that, by acting thus, you are to some extent knocking the stuffing out of your chances of becoming manager of this bank? If you dash off now, I shouldn’t count too much on that marrying the Governor’s daughter scheme I sketched out for you last night. I doubt whether this is going to help you to hold the gorgeous East in fee, and all that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, dash the gorgeous East.’
‘By all means,’ said Psmith obligingly. ‘I just thought I’d mention it. I’ll look in at Lord’s this afternoon. I shall send my card up to you, and trust to your sympathetic cooperation to enable me to effect an entry into the pavilion on my face. My father is coming up to London today. I’ll bring him along, too.’
‘Right ho. Dash it, it’s twenty to. So long. See you at Lord’s.’
Psmith looked after his retreating form till it had vanished through the swing-door, and shrugged his shoulders resignedly, as if disclaiming all responsibility.
‘He has gone without his hat,’ he murmured. ‘It seems to me that this is practically a case of running amok. And now to break the news to bereaved Comrade Gregory.’
He abandoned his intention of ringing up the Haymarket Theatre, and turning away from the call-box, walked meditatively down the aisle till he came to the Fixed Deposits Department, where the top of Mr Gregory’s head was to be seen over the glass barrier, as he applied himself to his work.
Psmith, resting his elbows on the top of the barrier and holding his head between his hands, eyed the absorbed toiler for a moment in silence, then emitted a hollow groan.
Mr Gregory, who was ruling a line in a ledger—most of the work in the Fixed Deposits Department consisted of ruling lines in ledgers, sometimes in black ink, sometimes in red—started as if he had been stung, and made a complete mess of the ruled line. He lifted a fiery, bearded face, and met Psmith’s eye, which shone with kindly sympathy.
He found words.
‘What the dickens are you standing there for, mooing like a blanked cow?’ he inquired.
‘I was groaning,’ explained Psmith with quiet dignity. ‘And why was I groaning?’ he continued. ‘Because a shadow has fallen on the Fixed Deposits Department. Comrade Jackson, the Pride of the Office, has gone.’
Mr Gregory rose from his seat.
‘I don’t know who the dickens you are—’ he began.
‘I am Psmith,’ said the old Etonian,
‘Oh, you’re Smith, are you?’
‘With a preliminary P. Which, however, is not sounded.’
‘And what’s all this dashed nonsense about Jackson?’
‘He is gone. Gone like the dew from the petal of a rose.’
‘Gone! Where’s he gone to?’
‘Lord’s.’
‘What lord’s?’
Psmith waved his hand gently.
‘You misunderstand me. Comrade Jackson has not gone to mix with any member of our gay and thoughtless aristocracy. He has gone to Lord’s cricket ground.’
Mr Gregory’s beard bristled even more than was its wont.
‘What!’ he roared. ‘Gone to watch a cricket match! Gone—!’
‘Not to watch. To play. An urgent summons I need not say. Nothing but an urgent summons could have wrenched him from your very delightful society, I am sure.’
Mr Gregory glared.
‘I don’t want any of your impudence,’ he said.
Psmith nodded gravely.
‘We all have these curious likes and dislikes,’ he said tolerantly. ‘You do not like my impudence. Well, well, some people don’t. And now, having broken the sad news, I will return to my own department.’
‘Half a minute. You come with me and tell this yarn of yours to Mr Bickersdyke.’
‘You think it would interest, amuse him? Perhaps you are right. Let us buttonhole Comrade Bickersdyke.’
Mr Bickersdyke was disengaged. The head of the Fixed Deposits Department stumped into the room. Psmith followed at a more leisurely pace.
‘Allow me,’ he said with a winning smile, as Mr Gregory opened his mouth to speak, ‘to take this opportunity of congratulating you on your success at the election. A narrow but well-deserved victory.’
There was nothing cordial in the manager’s manner.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘Myself, nothing,’ said Psmith. ‘But I understand that Mr Gregory has some communication to make.’
‘Tell Mr Bickersdyke that story of yours,’ said Mr Gregory.
‘Surely,’ said Psmith reprovingly, ‘this is no time for anecdotes. Mr Bickersdyke is busy. He—’
‘Tell him what you told me about Jackson.’
Mr Bickersdyke looked up inquiringly.
‘Jackson,’ said Psmith, ‘has been obliged to absent himself from wo
rk today owing to an urgent summons from his brother, who, I understand, has suffered a bereavement.’
‘It’s a lie,’ roared Mr Gregory. ‘You told me yourself he’d gone to play in a cricket match.’
‘True. As I said, he received an urgent summons from his brother.’
‘What about the bereavement, then?’
‘The team was one short. His brother was very distressed about it. What could Comrade Jackson do? Could he refuse to help his brother when it was in his power? His generous nature is a byword. He did the only possible thing. He consented to play.’
Mr Bickersdyke spoke.
‘Am I to understand,’ he asked, with sinister calm, ‘that Mr Jackson has left his work and gone off to play in a cricket match?’
‘Something of that sort has, I believe, happened,’ said Psmith. ‘He knew, of course,’ he added, bowing gracefully in Mr Gregory’s direction, ‘that he was leaving his work in thoroughly competent hands.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Bickersdyke. ‘That will do. You will help Mr Gregory in his department for the time being, Mr Smith. I will arrange for somebody to take your place in your own department.’
‘It will be a pleasure,’ murmured Psmith.
‘Show Mr Smith what he has to do, Mr Gregory,’ said the manager.
They left the room.
‘How curious, Comrade Gregory,’ mused Psmith, as they went, ‘are the workings of Fate! A moment back, and your life was a blank. Comrade Jackson, that prince of Fixed Depositors, had gone. How, you said to yourself despairingly, can his place be filled? Then the cloud broke, and the sun shone out again. I came to help you. What you lose on the swings, you make up on the roundabouts. Now show me what I have to do, and then let us make this department sizzle. You have drawn a good ticket, Comrade Gregory.’