Psmith in the City by P. G. Wodehouse (world of reading txt) 📕

ago it was that he had been on his fishing tour, because it was important to know in order to bring the charge home against Jerome. Well, after a bit, I was amazed, and pained, too, to hear Comrade Bickersdyke urging certain bravoes in the audience to turn me out. If ever there was a case of biting the hand that fed him.⁠ ⁠… Well, well.⁠ ⁠… By this time the meeting had begun to take sides to some extent. What I might call my party, the Earnest Investigators, were whistling between their fingers, stamping on the floor, and shouting, ‘Chestnuts!’ while the opposing party, the bravoes, seemed to be trying, as I say, to do jiujitsu tricks with me. It was a painful situation. I know the cultivated man of affairs should have passed the thing off with a short, careless laugh; but, owing to the above-mentioned alcohol expert having got both hands under my collar, short, careless laughs were off. I was compelled, very reluctantly, to conclude the interview by tapping the bright boy on the jaw. He took the hint, and sat down on the floor. I thought no more of the matter, and was making my way thoughtfully to the exit, when a second man of wrath put the above on my forehead. You can’t ignore a thing like that. I collected some of his waistcoat and one of his legs, and hove him with some vim into the middle distance. By this time a good many of the Earnest Investigators were beginning to join in; and it was just there that the affair began to have certain points of resemblance to a pantomime rally. Everybody seemed to be shouting a good deal and hitting everybody else. It was no place for a man of delicate culture, so I edged towards the door, and drifted out. There was a cab in the offing. I boarded it. And, having kicked a vigorous politician in the stomach, as he was endeavouring to climb in too, I drove off home.”

Psmith got up, looked at his forehead once more in the glass, sighed, and sat down again.

“All very disturbing,” he said.

“Great Scott,” said Mike, “I wish I’d come. Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were going to rag? I think you might as well have done. I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds.”

Psmith regarded him with raised eyebrows.

“Rag!” he said. “Comrade Jackson, I do not understand you. You surely do not think that I had any other object in doing what I did than to serve Comrade Bickersdyke? It’s terrible how one’s motives get distorted in this world of ours.”

“Well,” said Mike, with a grin, “I know one person who’ll jolly well distort your motives, as you call it, and that’s Bickersdyke.”

Psmith looked thoughtful.

“True,” he said, “true. There is that possibility. I tell you, Comrade Jackson, once more that my bright young life is being slowly blighted by the frightful way in which that man misunderstands me. It seems almost impossible to try to do him a good turn without having the action misconstrued.”

“What’ll you say to him tomorrow?”

“I shall make no allusion to the painful affair. If I happen to meet him in the ordinary course of business routine, I shall pass some light, pleasant remark⁠—on the weather, let us say, or the Bank rate⁠—and continue my duties.”

“How about if he sends for you, and wants to do the light, pleasant remark business on his own?”

“In that case I shall not thwart him. If he invites me into his private room, I shall be his guest, and shall discuss, to the best of my ability, any topic which he may care to introduce. There shall be no constraint between Comrade Bickersdyke and myself.”

“No, I shouldn’t think there would be. I wish I could come and hear you.”

“I wish you could,” said Psmith courteously.

“Still, it doesn’t matter much to you. You don’t care if you do get sacked.”

Psmith rose.

“In that way possibly, as you say, I am agreeably situated. If the New Asiatic Bank does not require Psmith’s services, there are other spheres where a young man of spirit may carve a place for himself. No, what is worrying me, Comrade Jackson, is not the thought of the push. It is the growing fear that Comrade Bickersdyke and I will never thoroughly understand and appreciate one another. A deep gulf lies between us. I do what I can do to bridge it over, but he makes no response. On his side of the gulf building operations appear to be at an entire standstill. That is what is carving these lines of care on my forehead, Comrade Jackson. That is what is painting these purple circles beneath my eyes. Quite inadvertently to be disturbing Comrade Bickersdyke, annoying him, preventing him from enjoying life. How sad this is. Life bulges with these tragedies.”

Mike picked up the evening paper.

“Don’t let it keep you awake at night,” he said. “By the way, did you see that Manchester United were playing this afternoon? They won. You’d better sit down and sweat up some of the details. You’ll want them tomorrow.”

“You are very right, Comrade Jackson,” said Psmith, reseating himself. “So the Mancunians pushed the bulb into the meshes beyond the uprights no fewer than four times, did they? Bless the dear boys, what spirits they do enjoy, to be sure. Comrade Jackson, do not disturb me. I must concentrate myself. These are deep waters.”

XII In a Nutshell

Mr. Bickersdyke sat in his private room at the New Asiatic Bank with a pile of newspapers before him. At least, the casual observer would have said that it was Mr. Bickersdyke. In reality, however, it was an active volcano in the shape and clothes of the bank manager. It was freely admitted in the office that morning that the manager had lowered all records with ease. The staff had known him to be in a bad temper before⁠—frequently; but his frame of mind on