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

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.”

XVII 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 blancmange 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