Psmith in the City Page 5

  5. The Other Man

  As Bannister had said, the work in the postage department was notintricate. There was nothing much to do except enter and stamp letters,and, at intervals, take them down to the post office at the end of thestreet. The nature of the work gave Mike plenty of time for reflection.

  His thoughts became gloomy again. All this was very far removed fromthe life to which he had looked forward. There are some people who takenaturally to a life of commerce. Mike was not of these. To him therestraint of the business was irksome. He had been used to an open-airlife, and a life, in its way, of excitement. He gathered that he wouldnot be free till five o'clock, and that on the following day he wouldcome at ten and go at five, and the same every day, except Saturdaysand Sundays, all the year round, with a ten days' holiday. The monotonyof the prospect appalled him. He was not old enough to know what anarcotic is Habit, and that one can become attached to and interestedin the most unpromising jobs. He worked away dismally at his letterstill he had finished them. Then there was nothing to do except sit andwait for more.

  He looked through the letters he had stamped, and re-read theaddresses. Some of them were directed to people living in the country,one to a house which he knew quite well, near to his own home inShropshire. It made him home-sick, conjuring up visions of shadygardens and country sounds and smells, and the silver Severn gleamingin the distance through the trees. About now, if he were not in thisdismal place, he would be lying in the shade in the garden with a book,or wandering down to the river to boat or bathe. That envelopeaddressed to the man in Shropshire gave him the worst moment he hadexperienced that day.

  The time crept slowly on to one o'clock. At two minutes past Mike awokefrom a day-dream to find Mr Waller standing by his side. The cashierhad his hat on.

  'I wonder,' said Mr Waller, 'if you would care to come out to lunch. Igenerally go about this time, and Mr Rossiter, I know, does not go outtill two. I thought perhaps that, being unused to the City, you mighthave some difficulty in finding your way about.'

  'It's awfully good of you,' said Mike. 'I should like to.'

  The other led the way through the streets and down obscure alleys tillthey came to a chop-house. Here one could have the doubtful pleasure ofseeing one's chop in its various stages of evolution. Mr Waller orderedlunch with the care of one to whom lunch is no slight matter. Fewworkers in the City do regard lunch as a trivial affair. It is thekeynote of their day. It is an oasis in a desert of ink and ledgers.Conversation in city office deals, in the morning, with what one isgoing to have for lunch, and in the afternoon with what one has had forlunch.

  At intervals during the meal Mr Waller talked. Mike was content tolisten. There was something soothing about the grey-bearded one.

  'What sort of a man is Bickersdyke?' asked Mike.

  'A very able man. A very able man indeed. I'm afraid he's not popularin the office. A little inclined, perhaps, to be hard on mistakes. Ican remember the time when he was quite different. He and I were fellowclerks in Morton and Blatherwick's. He got on better than I did. Agreat fellow for getting on. They say he is to be the Unionistcandidate for Kenningford when the time comes. A great worker, butperhaps not quite the sort of man to be generally popular in anoffice.'

  'He's a blighter,' was Mike's verdict. Mr Waller made no comment. Mikewas to learn later that the manager and the cashier, despite the factthat they had been together in less prosperous days--or possiblybecause of it--were not on very good terms. Mr Bickersdyke was a man ofstrong prejudices, and he disliked the cashier, whom he looked downupon as one who had climbed to a lower rung of the ladder than hehimself had reached.

  As the hands of the chop-house clock reached a quarter to two, MrWaller rose, and led the way back to the office, where they parted fortheir respective desks. Gratitude for any good turn done to him was aleading characteristic of Mike's nature, and he felt genuinely gratefulto the cashier for troubling to seek him out and be friendly to him.

  His three-quarters-of-an-hour absence had led to the accumulation of asmall pile of letters on his desk. He sat down and began to work themoff. The addresses continued to exercise a fascination for him. He wasmiles away from the office, speculating on what sort of a man J. B.Garside, Esq, was, and whether he had a good time at his house inWorcestershire, when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

  He looked up.

  Standing by his side, immaculately dressed as ever, with his eye-glassfixed and a gentle smile on his face, was Psmith.

  Mike stared.

  'Commerce,' said Psmith, as he drew off his lavender gloves, 'hasclaimed me for her own. Comrade of old, I, too, have joined thisblighted institution.'

  As he spoke, there was a whirring noise in the immediate neighbourhood,and Mr Rossiter buzzed out from his den with the _esprit_ andanimation of a clock-work toy.

  'Who's here?' said Psmith with interest, removing his eye-glass,polishing it, and replacing it in his eye.

  'Mr Jackson,' exclaimed Mr Rossiter. 'I really must ask you to be goodenough to come in from your lunch at the proper time. It was fullyseven minutes to two when you returned, and--'

  'That little more,' sighed Psmith, 'and how much is it!'

  'Who are you?' snapped Mr Rossiter, turning on him.

  'I shall be delighted, Comrade--'

  'Rossiter,' said Mike, aside.

  'Comrade Rossiter. I shall be delighted to furnish you with particularsof my family history. As follows. Soon after the Norman Conquest, acertain Sieur de Psmith grew tired of work--a family failing,alas!--and settled down in this country to live peacefully for theremainder of his life on what he could extract from the localpeasantry. He may be described as the founder of the family whichultimately culminated in Me. Passing on--'

  Mr Rossiter refused to pass on.

  'What are you doing here? What have you come for?'

  'Work,' said Psmith, with simple dignity. 'I am now a member of thestaff of this bank. Its interests are my interests. Psmith, theindividual, ceases to exist, and there springs into being Psmith, thecog in the wheel of the New Asiatic Bank; Psmith, the link in thebank's chain; Psmith, the Worker. I shall not spare myself,' heproceeded earnestly. 'I shall toil with all the accumulated energy ofone who, up till now, has only known what work is like from hearsay.Whose is that form sitting on the steps of the bank in the morning,waiting eagerly for the place to open? It is the form of Psmith, theWorker. Whose is that haggard, drawn face which bends over a ledgerlong after the other toilers have sped blithely westwards to dine atLyons' Popular Cafe? It is the face of Psmith, the Worker.'

  'I--' began Mr Rossiter.

  'I tell you,' continued Psmith, waving aside the interruption andtapping the head of the department rhythmically in the region of thesecond waistcoat-button with a long finger, 'I tell _you_, ComradeRossiter, that you have got hold of a good man. You and I together, notforgetting Comrade Jackson, the pet of the Smart Set, will toil earlyand late till we boost up this Postage Department into a shining modelof what a Postage Department should be. What that is, at present, I donot exactly know. However. Excursion trains will be run from distantshires to see this Postage Department. American visitors to London willdo it before going on to the Tower. And now,' he broke off, with acrisp, businesslike intonation, 'I must ask you to excuse me. Much as Ihave enjoyed this little chat, I fear it must now cease. The time hascome to work. Our trade rivals are getting ahead of us. The whispergoes round, "Rossiter and Psmith are talking, not working," and otherfirms prepare to pinch our business. Let me Work.'

  Two minutes later, Mr Rossiter was sitting at his desk with a dazedexpression, while Psmith, perched gracefully on a stool, enteredfigures in a ledger.