Psmith in the City, P. G. Wodehouse [beach read TXT] 📗

had returned. Constant disappointment in this respect had rendered him decidedly jumpy. When Psmith and Mike reached the desk, he was a kind of human soda-water bottle. He fizzed over with questions, reproofs, and warnings.

“What does it mean? What does it mean?” he cried. “Where have you been? Where have you been?”

“Poetry,” said Psmith approvingly.

“You have been absent from your places for over half an hour. Why? Why? Why? Where have you been? Where have you been? I cannot have this. It is preposterous. Where have you been? Suppose Mr. Bickersdyke had happened to come round here. I should not have known what to say to him.”

“Never an easy man to chat with, Comrade Bickersdyke,” agreed Psmith.

“You must thoroughly understand that you are expected to remain in your places during business hours.”

“Of course,” said Psmith, “that makes it a little hard for Comrade Jackson to post letters, does it not?”

“Have you been posting letters?”

“We have,” said Psmith. “You have wronged us. Seeing our absent places you jumped rashly to the conclusion that we were merely gadding about in pursuit of pleasure. Error. All the while we were furthering the bank’s best interests by posting letters.”

“You had no business to leave your place. Jackson is on the posting desk.”

“You are very right,” said Psmith, “and it shall not occur again. It was only because it was the first day, Comrade Jackson is not used to the stir and bustle of the City. His nerve failed him. He shrank from going to the post office alone. So I volunteered to accompany him. And,” concluded Psmith, impressively, “we won safely through. Every letter has been posted.”

“That need not have taken you half an hour.”

“True. And the actual work did not. It was carried through swiftly and surely. But the nerve strain had left us shaken. Before resuming our more ordinary duties we had to refresh. A brief breathing space, a little coffee and porridge, and here we are, fit for work once more.”

“If it occurs again, I shall report the matter to Mr. Bickersdyke.”

“And rightly so,” said Psmith, earnestly. “Quite rightly so. Discipline, discipline. That is the cry. There must be no shirking of painful duties. Sentiment must play no part in business. Rossiter, the man, may sympathise, but Rossiter, the Departmental head, must be adamant.”

Mr. Rossiter pondered over this for a moment, then went off on a side-issue.

“What is the meaning of this foolery?” he asked, pointing to Psmith’s gloves and hat. “Suppose Mr. Bickersdyke had come round and seen them, what should I have said?”

“You would have given him a message of cheer. You would have said, ‘All is well. Psmith has not left us. He will come back. And Comrade Bickersdyke, relieved, would have⁠—’ ”

“You do not seem very busy, Mr. Smith.”

Both Psmith and Mr. Rossiter were startled.

Mr. Rossiter jumped as if somebody had run a gimlet into him, and even Psmith started slightly. They had not heard Mr. Bickersdyke approaching. Mike, who had been stolidly entering addresses in his ledger during the latter part of the conversation, was also taken by surprise.

Psmith was the first to recover. Mr. Rossiter was still too confused for speech, but Psmith took the situation in hand.

“Apparently no,” he said, swiftly removing his hat from the ruler. “In reality, yes. Mr. Rossiter and I were just scheming out a line of work for me as you came up. If you had arrived a moment later, you would have found me toiling.”

“H’m. I hope I should. We do not encourage idling in this bank.”

“Assuredly not,” said Psmith warmly. “Most assuredly not. I would not have it otherwise. I am a worker. A bee, not a drone. A Lusitania, not a limpet. Perhaps I have not yet that grip on my duties which I shall soon acquire; but it is coming. It is coming. I see daylight.”

“H’m. I have only your word for it.” He turned to Mr. Rossiter, who had now recovered himself, and was as nearly calm as it was in his nature to be. “Do you find Mr. Smith’s work satisfactory, Mr. Rossiter?”

Psmith waited resignedly for an outburst of complaint respecting the small matter that had been under discussion between the head of the department and himself; but to his surprise it did not come.

“Oh⁠—ah⁠—quite, quite, Mr. Bickersdyke. I think he will very soon pick things up.”

Mr. Bickersdyke turned away. He was a conscientious bank manager, and one can only suppose that Mr. Rossiter’s tribute to the earnestness of one of his employees was gratifying to him. But for that, one would have said that he was disappointed.

“Oh, Mr. Bickersdyke,” said Psmith.

The manager stopped.

“Father sent his kind regards to you,” said Psmith benevolently.

Mr. Bickersdyke walked off without comment.

“An uncommonly cheery, companionable feller,” murmured Psmith, as he turned to his work.

The first day anywhere, if one spends it in a sedentary fashion, always seemed unending; and Mike felt as if he had been sitting at his desk for weeks when the hour for departure came. A bank’s day ends gradually, reluctantly, as it were. At about five there is a sort of stir, not unlike the stir in a theatre when the curtain is on the point of falling. Ledgers are closed with a bang. Men stand about and talk for a moment or two before going to the basement for their hats and coats. Then, at irregular intervals, forms pass down the central aisle and out through the swing doors. There is an air of relaxation over the place, though some departments are still working as hard as ever under a blaze of electric light. Somebody begins to sing, and an instant chorus of protests and maledictions rises from all sides. Gradually, however, the electric lights go out. The procession down the centre aisle becomes more regular; and eventually the place is left to darkness and the night watchman.

The postage department was one of the last to be freed from duty. This was due to the inconsiderateness of the other departments, which omitted to disgorge their letters till the last moment. Mike as he grew familiar with the work, and began