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

to the affair. When you were being put through it, in Comrade Bickersdyke’s inimitably breezy manner, Sir John What’s-his-name was, I am given to understand, present. Naturally, to pacify the aggrieved bart., Comrade B. had to lay it on regardless of expense. In America, as possibly you are aware, there is a regular post of mistake clerk, whose duty it is to receive in the neck anything that happens to be coming along when customers make complaints. He is hauled into the presence of the foaming customer, cursed, and sacked. The customer goes away appeased. The mistake clerk, if the harangue has been unusually energetic, applies for a rise of salary. Now, possibly, in your case⁠—”

“In my case,” interrupted Mike, “there was none of that rot. Bickersdyke wasn’t putting it on. He meant every word. Why, dash it all, you know yourself he’d be only too glad to sack me, just to get some of his own back with me.”

Psmith’s eyes opened in pained surprise.

“Get some of his own back!” he repeated.

“Are you insinuating, Comrade Jackson, that my relations with Comrade Bickersdyke are not of the most pleasant and agreeable nature possible? How do these ideas get about? I yield to nobody in my respect for our manager. I may have had occasion from time to time to correct him in some trifling matter, but surely he is not the man to let such a thing rankle? No! I prefer to think that Comrade Bickersdyke regards me as his friend and well-wisher, and will lend a courteous ear to any proposal I see fit to make. I hope shortly to be able to prove this to you. I will discuss this little affair of the cheque with him at our ease at the club, and I shall be surprised if we do not come to some arrangement.”

“Look here, Smith,” said Mike earnestly, “for goodness’ sake don’t go playing the goat. There’s no earthly need for you to get lugged into this business. Don’t you worry about me. I shall be all right.”

“I think,” said Psmith, “that you will⁠—when I have chatted with Comrade Bickersdyke.”

XXII And Takes Steps

On returning to the bank, Mike found Mr. Waller in the grip of a peculiarly varied set of mixed feelings. Shortly after Mike’s departure for the Mecca, the cashier had been summoned once more into the Presence, and had there been informed that, as apparently he had not been directly responsible for the gross piece of carelessness by which the bank had suffered so considerable a loss (here Sir John puffed out his cheeks like a meditative toad), the matter, as far as he was concerned, was at an end. On the other hand⁠—! Here Mr. Waller was hauled over the coals for Incredible Rashness in allowing a mere junior subordinate to handle important tasks like the paying out of money, and so on, till he felt raw all over. However, it was not dismissal. That was the great thing. And his principal sensation was one of relief.

Mingled with the relief were sympathy for Mike, gratitude to him for having given himself up so promptly, and a curiously dazed sensation, as if somebody had been hitting him on the head with a bolster.

All of which emotions, taken simultaneously, had the effect of rendering him completely dumb when he saw Mike. He felt that he did not know what to say to him. And as Mike, for his part, simply wanted to be let alone, and not compelled to talk, conversation was at something of a standstill in the Cash Department.

After five minutes, it occurred to Mr. Waller that perhaps the best plan would be to interview Psmith. Psmith would know exactly how matters stood. He could not ask Mike point-blank whether he had been dismissed. But there was the probability that Psmith had been informed and would pass on the information.

Psmith received the cashier with a dignified kindliness.

“Oh, er, Smith,” said Mr. Waller, “I wanted just to ask you about Jackson.”

Psmith bowed his head gravely.

“Exactly,” he said. “Comrade Jackson. I think I may say that you have come to the right man. Comrade Jackson has placed himself in my hands, and I am dealing with his case. A somewhat tricky business, but I shall see him through.”

“Has he⁠—?” Mr. Waller hesitated.

“You were saying?” said Psmith.

“Does Mr. Bickersdyke intend to dismiss him?”

“At present,” admitted Psmith, “there is some idea of that description floating⁠—nebulously, as it were⁠—in Comrade Bickersdyke’s mind. Indeed, from what I gather from my client, the push was actually administered, in so many words. But tush! And possibly bah! we know what happens on these occasions, do we not? You and I are students of human nature, and we know that a man of Comrade Bickersdyke’s warmhearted type is apt to say in the heat of the moment a great deal more than he really means. Men of his impulsive character cannot help expressing themselves in times of stress with a certain generous strength which those who do not understand them are inclined to take a little too seriously. I shall have a chat with Comrade Bickersdyke at the conclusion of the day’s work, and I have no doubt that we shall both laugh heartily over this little episode.”

Mr. Waller pulled at his beard, with an expression on his face that seemed to suggest that he was not quite so confident on this point. He was about to put his doubts into words when Mr. Rossiter appeared, and Psmith, murmuring something about duty, turned again to his ledger. The cashier drifted back to his own department.

It was one of Psmith’s theories of Life, which he was accustomed to propound to Mike in the small hours of the morning with his feet on the mantelpiece, that the secret of success lay in taking advantage of one’s occasional slices of luck, in seizing, as it were, the happy moment. When Mike, who had had the passage to write out ten times at Wrykyn on one occasion