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

of the dialogue. The subject of my shortcomings provides him with ample material for speech. I, on the other hand, am dumb. I have nothing to say.”

“I should think that was a bit of a change for you, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps, so,” said Psmith, “perhaps so. On the other hand, however restful it may be to myself, it does not enable me to secure Comrade Rossiter’s interest and win his esteem.”

“What Smith wants to know,” said Mike, “is whether Rossiter has any hobby of any kind. He thinks, if he has, he might work it to keep in with him.”

Psmith, who had been listening with an air of pleased interest, much as a father would listen to his child prattling for the benefit of a visitor, confirmed this statement.

“Comrade Jackson,” he said, “has put the matter with his usual admirable clearness. That is the thing in a nutshell. Has Comrade Rossiter any hobby that you know of? Spillikins, brass-rubbing, the Near Eastern Question, or anything like that? I have tried him with postage stamps (which you’d think, as head of a postage department, he ought to be interested in), and dried seaweed, Hall Caine, but I have the honour to report total failure. The man seems to have no pleasures. What does he do with himself when the day’s toil is ended? That giant brain must occupy itself somehow.”

“I don’t know,” said Bannister, “unless it’s football. I saw him once watching Chelsea. I was rather surprised.”

“Football,” said Psmith thoughtfully, “football. By no means a scaly idea. I rather fancy, Comrade Bannister, that you have whanged the nail on the head. Is he strong on any particular team? I mean, have you ever heard him, in the intervals of business worries, stamping on his desk and yelling, ‘Buck up Cottagers!’ or ‘Lay ’em out, Pensioners!’ or anything like that? One moment.” Psmith held up his hand. “I will get my Sherlock Holmes system to work. What was the other team in the modern gladiatorial contest at which you saw Comrade Rossiter?”

“Manchester United.”

“And Comrade Rossiter, I should say, was a Manchester man.”

“I believe he is.”

“Then I am prepared to bet a small sum that he is nuts on Manchester United. My dear Holmes, how⁠—! Elementary, my dear fellow, quite elementary. But here comes the lad in person.”

Mr. Rossiter turned in from the central aisle through the counter-door, and, observing the conversational group at the postage-desk, came bounding up. Bannister moved off.

“Really, Smith,” said Mr. Rossiter, “you always seem to be talking. I have overlooked the matter once, as I did not wish to get you into trouble so soon after joining; but, really, it cannot go on. I must take notice of it.”

Psmith held up his hand.

“The fault was mine,” he said, with manly frankness. “Entirely mine. Bannister came in a purely professional spirit to deposit a letter with Comrade Jackson. I engaged him in conversation on the subject of the Football League, and I was just trying to correct his view that Newcastle United were the best team playing, when you arrived.”

“It is perfectly absurd,” said Mr. Rossiter, “that you should waste the bank’s time in this way. The bank pays you to work, not to talk about professional football.”

“Just so, just so,” murmured Psmith.

“There is too much talking in this department.”

“I fear you are right.”

“It is nonsense.”

“My own view,” said Psmith, “was that Manchester United were by far the finest team before the public.”

“Get on with your work, Smith.”

Mr. Rossiter stumped off to his desk, where he sat as one in thought.

“Smith,” he said at the end of five minutes.

Psmith slid from his stool, and made his way deferentially towards him.

“Bannister’s a fool,” snapped Mr. Rossiter.

“So I thought,” said Psmith.

“A perfect fool. He always was.”

Psmith shook his head sorrowfully, as who should say, “Exit Bannister.”

“There is no team playing today to touch Manchester United.”

“Precisely what I said to Comrade Bannister.”

“Of course. You know something about it.”

“The study of League football,” said Psmith, “has been my relaxation for years.”

“But we have no time to discuss it now.”

“Assuredly not, sir. Work before everything.”

“Some other time, when⁠—”

“⁠—We are less busy. Precisely.”

Psmith moved back to his seat.

“I fear,” he said to Mike, as he resumed work, “that as far as Comrade Rossiter’s friendship and esteem are concerned, I have to a certain extent landed Comrade Bannister in the bouillon; but it was in a good cause. I fancy we have won through. Half an hour’s thoughtful perusal of the Footballers’ Who’s Who, just to find out some elementary facts about Manchester United, and I rather think the friendly Native is corralled. And now once more to work. Work, the hobby of the hustler and the deadbeat’s dread.”

IX The Haunting of Mr. Bickersdyke

Anything in the nature of a rash and hasty move was wholly foreign to Psmith’s tactics. He had the patience which is the chief quality of the successful general. He was content to secure his base before making any offensive movement. It was a fortnight before he turned his attention to the education of Mr. Bickersdyke. During that fortnight he conversed attractively, in the intervals of work, on the subject of League football in general and Manchester United in particular. The subject is not hard to master if one sets oneself earnestly to it; and Psmith spared no pains. The football editions of the evening papers are not reticent about those who play the game: and Psmith drank in every detail with the thoroughness of the conscientious student. By the end of the fortnight he knew what was the favourite breakfast food of J. Turnbull; what Sandy Turnbull wore next his skin; and who, in the opinion of Meredith, was England’s leading politician. These facts, imparted to and discussed with Mr. Rossiter, made the progress of the entente cordiale rapid. It was on the eighth day that Mr. Rossiter consented to lunch with the Old Etonian. On the tenth he played the host. By the end of the fortnight the flapping of the white wings