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

no more pleasure for us, gradually shows itself not wholly grey.”

Mr. Bickersdyke seemed about to make an observation at this point, but Psmith, with a wave of the hand, hurried on.

“We find that the sun still shines, the birds still sing. Things which used to entertain us resume their attraction. Gradually we emerge from the soup, and begin⁠—”

“If you have anything to say to me,” said the manager, “I should be glad if you would say it, and go.”

“You prefer me not to break the bad news gently?” said Psmith. “Perhaps you are wise. In a word, then,”⁠—he picked up the brandy and held it out 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 are stunned. I am sorry, but it had to be. You will say that it is madness for us to offer our resignations, that our grip on the work of the bank made a prosperous career in Commerce certain for us. It may be so. But somehow we feel that our talents lie elsewhere. To Comrade Jackson the management of the Psmith estates seems the job on which he can get the rapid half-Nelson. For my own part, I feel that my long suit is the Bar. I am a poor, unready speaker, but I intend to acquire a knowledge of the Law which shall outweigh this defect. Before leaving you, I should like to say⁠—I may speak for you as well as myself, Comrade Jackson⁠—?”

Mike uttered his first contribution to the conversation⁠—a gurgle⁠—and relapsed into silence again.

“I should like to say,” continued Psmith, “how much Comrade Jackson and I have enjoyed our stay in the bank. The insight it has given us into your masterly handling of the intricate mechanism of the office has been a treat we would not have missed. But our place is elsewhere.”

He rose. Mike followed his example with alacrity. It occurred to Mr. Bickersdyke, as they turned to go, that he had not yet been able to get in a word about their dismissal. They were drifting away with all the honours of war.

“Come back,” he cried.

Psmith paused and shook his head sadly.

“This is unmanly, Comrade Bickersdyke,” he said. “I had not expected this. That you should be dazed by the shock was natural. But that you should beg us to reconsider our resolve and return to the bank is unworthy of you. Be a man. Bite the bullet. The first keen pang will pass. 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 to the flat. My father will be round there soon.” He looked over his shoulder. Mr. Bickersdyke appeared to be wrapped in thought.

“A painful business,” sighed Psmith. “The man seems quite broken up. It had to be, however. The bank was no place for us. An excellent career in many respects, but unsuitable for you and me. It is hard on Comrade Bickersdyke, especially as he took such trouble to get me into it, but I think we may say that we are well out of the place.”

Mike’s mind roamed into the future. Cambridge first, and then an open-air life of the sort he had always dreamed of. The Problem of Life seemed to him to be solved. He looked on down the years, and he could see no troubles there of any kind whatsoever. Reason suggested that there were probably one or two knocking about somewhere, but this was 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.”

Colophon

Psmith in the City
was published in 1910 by
P. G. Wodehouse.

This ebook was produced for
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The cover page is adapted from
Léon Delafosse,
a painting completed in 1895 by
John Singer Sargent.
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