Psmith in the City - P. G. Wodehouse (romantic love story reading txt) 📗

“Not bad,” assented Psmith, “not bad. Free from squalor to a great extent. I have a number of little objects of vertu coming down shortly from the old homestead. Pictures, and so on. It will be by no means un-snug when they are up. Meanwhile, I can rough it. We are old campaigners, we Psmiths. Give us a roof, a few comfortable chairs, a sofa or two, half a dozen cushions, and decent meals, and we do not repine. Reverting once more to Comrade Rossiter⁠—”

“Yes, what about him?” said Mike. “You’ll have a pretty tough job turning him into a friendly native, I should think. How do you mean to start?”

Psmith regarded him with a benevolent eye.

“There is but one way,” he said. “Do you remember the case of Comrade Outwood, at Sedleigh? How did we corral him, and become to him practically as long-lost sons?”

“We got round him by joining the Archaeological Society.”

“Precisely,” said Psmith. “Every man has his hobby. The thing is to find it out. In the case of Comrade Rossiter, I should say that it would be either postage stamps, dried seaweed, or Hall Caine. I shall endeavour to find out today. A few casual questions, and the thing is done. Shall we be putting in an appearance at the busy hive now? If we are to continue in the running for the bonus stakes, it would be well to start soon.”

Mike’s first duty at the bank that morning was to check the stamps and petty cash. While he was engaged on this task, he heard Psmith conversing affably with Mr. Rossiter.

“Good morning,” said Psmith.

“Morning,” replied his chief, doing sleight-of-hand tricks with a bundle of letters which lay on his desk. “Get on with your work, Psmith. We have a lot before us.”

“Undoubtedly. I am all impatience. I should say that in an institution like this, dealing as it does with distant portions of the globe, a philatelist would have excellent opportunities of increasing his collection. With me, stamp collecting has always been a positive craze. I⁠—”

“I have no time for nonsense of that sort myself,” said Mr. Rossiter. “I should advise you, if you mean to get on, to devote more time to your work and less to stamps.”

“I will start at once. Dried seaweed, again⁠—”

“Get on with your work, Smith.”

Psmith retired to his desk.

“This,” he said to Mike, “is undoubtedly something in the nature of a setback. I have drawn blank. The papers bring out posters, ‘Psmith Baffled.’ I must try again. Meanwhile, to work. Work, the hobby of the philosopher and the poor man’s friend.”

The morning dragged slowly on without incident. At twelve o’clock Mike had to go out and buy stamps, which he subsequently punched in the punching-machine in the basement, a not very exhilarating job in which he was assisted by one of the bank messengers, who discoursed learnedly on roses during the séance. Roses were his hobby. Mike began to see that Psmith had reason in his assumption that the way to every man’s heart was through his hobby. Mike made a firm friend of William, the messenger, by displaying an interest and a certain knowledge of roses. At the same time the conversation had the bad effect of leading to an acute relapse in the matter of homesickness. The rose garden at home had been one of Mike’s favourite haunts on a summer afternoon. The contrast between it and the basement of the New Asiatic Bank, the atmosphere of which was far from being roselike, was too much for his feelings. He emerged from the depths, with his punched stamps, filled with bitterness against Fate.

He found Psmith still baffled.

“Hall Caine,” said Psmith regretfully, “has also proved a frost. I wandered round to Comrade Rossiter’s desk just now with a rather brainy excursus on The Eternal City, and was received with the Impatient Frown rather than the Glad Eye. He was in the middle of adding up a rather tricky column of figures, and my remarks caused him to drop a stitch. So far from winning the man over, I have gone back. There now exists between Comrade Rossiter and myself a certain coldness. Further investigations will be postponed till after lunch.”

The postage department received visitors during the morning. Members of other departments came with letters, among them Bannister. Mr. Rossiter was away in the manager’s room at the time.

“How are you getting on?” said Bannister to Mike.

“Oh, all right,” said Mike.

“Had any trouble with Rossiter yet?”

“No, not much.”

“He hasn’t run you in to Bickersdyke?”

“No.”

“Pardon my interrupting a conversation between old college chums,” said Psmith courteously, “but I happened to overhear, as I toiled at my desk, the name of Comrade Rossiter.”

Bannister looked somewhat startled. Mike introduced them.

“This is Smith,” he said. “Chap I was at school with. This is Bannister, Smith, who used to be on here till I came.”

“In this department?” asked Psmith.

“Yes.”

“Then, Comrade Bannister, you are the very man I have been looking for. Your knowledge will be invaluable to us. I have no doubt that, during your stay in this excellently managed department, you had many opportunities of observing Comrade Rossiter?”

“I should jolly well think I had,” said Bannister with a laugh. “He saw to that. He was always popping out and cursing me about something.”

“Comrade Rossiter’s manners are a little restive,” agreed Psmith. “What used you to talk to him about?”

“What used I to talk to him about?”

“Exactly. In those interviews to which you have alluded, how did you amuse, entertain Comrade Rossiter?”

“I didn’t. He used to do all the talking there was.”

Psmith straightened his tie, and clicked his tongue, disappointed.

“This is unfortunate,” he said, smoothing his hair. “You see, Comrade Bannister, it is this way. In the course of my professional duties, I find myself continually coming into contact with Comrade Rossiter.”

“I bet you do,” said Bannister.

“On these occasions I am frequently at a loss for entertaining conversation. He has no difficulty, as apparently happened in your case, in keeping up his end