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

as usual. Bristow, it seemed, had come to the bank that morning in a fancy waistcoat of so emphatic a colour scheme that Psmith stoutly refused to sit in the same department with it.

“What with Comrades Bristow and Bickersdyke combined,” said Psmith plaintively, “the work is becoming too hard for me. The whisper is beginning to circulate, ‘Psmith’s number is up⁠—As a reformer he is merely among those present. He is losing his dash.’ But what can I do? I cannot keep an eye on both of them at the same time. The moment I concentrate myself on Comrade Bickersdyke for a brief spell, and seem to be doing him a bit of good, what happens? Why, Comrade Bristow sneaks off and buys a sort of woollen sunset. I saw the thing unexpectedly. I tell you I was shaken. It is the suddenness of that waistcoat which hits you. It’s discouraging, this sort of thing. I try always to think well of my fellow man. As an energetic Socialist, I do my best to see the good that is in him, but it’s hard. Comrade Bristow’s the most striking argument against the equality of man I’ve ever come across.”

Mr. Waller intervened at this point.

“I think you must really let Jackson go on with his work, Smith,” he said. “There seems to be too much talking.”

“My besetting sin,” said Psmith sadly. “Well, well, I will go back and do my best to face it, but it’s a tough job.”

He tottered wearily away in the direction of the Postage Department.

“Oh, Jackson,” said Mr. Waller, “will you kindly take my place for a few minutes? I must go round and see the Inward Bills about something. I shall be back very soon.”

Mike was becoming accustomed to deputizing for the cashier for short spaces of time. It generally happened that he had to do so once or twice a day. Strictly speaking, perhaps, Mr. Waller was wrong to leave such an important task as the actual cashing of cheques to an inexperienced person of Mike’s standing; but the New Asiatic Bank differed from most banks in that there was not a great deal of cross-counter work. People came in fairly frequently to cash cheques of two or three pounds, but it was rare that any very large dealings took place.

Having completed his business with the Inward Bills, Mr. Waller made his way back by a circuitous route, taking in the Postage desk.

He found Psmith with a pale, set face, inscribing figures in a ledger. The Old Etonian greeted him with the faint smile of a persecuted saint who is determined to be cheerful even at the stake.

“Comrade Bristow,” he said.

“Hullo, Smithy?” said the other, turning.

Psmith sadly directed Mr. Waller’s attention to the waistcoat, which was certainly definite in its colouring.

“Nothing,” said Psmith. “I only wanted to look at you.”

“Funny ass,” said Bristow, resuming his work. Psmith glanced at Mr. Waller, as who should say, “See what I have to put up with. And yet I do not give way.”

“Oh⁠—er⁠—Smith,” said Mr. Waller, “when you were talking to Jackson just now⁠—”

“Say no more,” said Psmith. “It shall not occur again. Why should I dislocate the work of your department in my efforts to win a sympathetic word? I will bear Comrade Bristow like a man here. After all, there are worse things at the Zoo.”

“No, no,” said Mr. Waller hastily, “I did not mean that. By all means pay us a visit now and then, if it does not interfere with your own work. But I noticed just now that you spoke to Bristow as Comrade Bristow.”

“It is too true,” said Psmith. “I must correct myself of the habit. He will be getting above himself.”

“And when you were speaking to Jackson, you spoke of yourself as a Socialist.”

“Socialism is the passion of my life,” said Psmith.

Mr. Waller’s face grew animated. He stammered in his eagerness.

“I am delighted,” he said. “Really, I am delighted. I also⁠—”

“A fellow worker in the Cause?” said Psmith.

“Er⁠—exactly.”

Psmith extended his hand gravely. Mr. Waller shook it with enthusiasm.

“I have never liked to speak of it to anybody in the office,” said Mr. Waller, “but I, too, am heart and soul in the movement.”

“Yours for the Revolution?” said Psmith.

“Just so. Just so. Exactly. I was wondering⁠—the fact is, I am in the habit of speaking on Sundays in the open air, and⁠—”

“Hyde Park?”

“No. No. Clapham Common. It is⁠—er⁠—handier for me where I live. Now, as you are interested in the movement, I was thinking that perhaps you might care to come and hear me speak next Sunday. Of course, if you have nothing better to do.”

“I should like to excessively,” said Psmith.

“Excellent. Bring Jackson with you, and both of you come to supper afterwards, if you will.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Perhaps you would speak yourself?”

“No,” said Psmith. “No. I think not. My Socialism is rather of the practical sort. I seldom speak. But it would be a treat to listen to you. What⁠—er⁠—what type of oratory is yours?”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Waller, pulling nervously at his beard, “of course I⁠—. Well, I am perhaps a little bitter⁠—”

“Yes, yes.”

“A little mordant and ironical.”

“You would be,” agreed Psmith. “I shall look forward to Sunday with every fibre quivering. And Comrade Jackson shall be at my side.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Waller. “I will go and tell him now.”

XV Stirring Times on the Common

“The first thing to do,” said Psmith, “is to ascertain that such a place as Clapham Common really exists. One has heard of it, of course, but has its existence ever been proved? I think not. Having accomplished that, we must then try to find out how to get to it. I should say at a venture that it would necessitate a sea voyage. On the other hand, Comrade Waller, who is a native of the spot, seems to find no difficulty in rolling to the office every morning. Therefore⁠—you follow me, Jackson?⁠—it must be in England. In that case, we will take a taximeter cab, and go out into the unknown, hand