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

not have missed it. They showed me the cheque in there just now. I could not believe that I had passed it. I don’t remember doing it. My mind was far away. I don’t remember the cheque or anything about it. Yet there it is.”

Once more Mike was tongue-tied. For the life of him he could not think of anything to say. Surely, he thought, he could find something in the shape of words to show his sympathy. But he could find nothing that would not sound horribly stilted and cold. He sat silent.

“Sir John is in there,” went on the cashier. “He is furious. Mr. Bickersdyke, too. They are both furious. I shall be dismissed. I shall lose my place. I shall be dismissed.” He was talking more to himself than to Mike. It was dreadful to see him sitting there, all limp and broken.

“I shall lose my place. Mr. Bickersdyke has wanted to get rid of me for a long time. He never liked me. I shall be dismissed. What can I do? I’m an old man. I can’t make another start. I am good for nothing. Nobody will take an old man like me.”

His voice died away. There was a silence. Mike sat staring miserably in front of him.

Then, quite suddenly, an idea came to him. The whole pressure of the atmosphere seemed to lift. He saw a way out. It was a curious crooked way, but at that moment it stretched clear and broad before him. He felt lighthearted and excited, as if he were watching the development of some interesting play at the theatre.

He got up, smiling.

The cashier did not notice the movement. Somebody had come in to cash a cheque, and he was working mechanically.

Mike walked up the aisle to Mr. Bickersdyke’s room, and went in.

The manager was in his chair at the big table. Opposite him, facing slightly sideways, was a small, round, very red-faced man. Mr. Bickersdyke was speaking as Mike entered.

“I can assure you, Sir John⁠—” he was saying.

He looked up as the door opened.

“Well, Mr. Jackson?”

Mike almost laughed. The situation was tickling him.

“Mr. Waller has told me⁠—” he began.

“I have already seen Mr. Waller.”

“I know. He told me about the cheque. I came to explain.”

“Explain?”

“Yes. He didn’t cash it at all.”

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Jackson.”

“I was at the counter when it was brought in,” said Mike. “I cashed it.”

XXI Psmith Makes Inquiries

Psmith, as was his habit of a morning when the fierce rush of his commercial duties had abated somewhat, was leaning gracefully against his desk, musing on many things, when he was aware that Bristow was standing before him.

Focusing his attention with some reluctance upon this blot on the horizon, he discovered that the exploiter of rainbow waistcoats and satin ties was addressing him.

“I say, Smithy,” said Bristow. He spoke in rather an awed voice.

“Say on, Comrade Bristow,” said Psmith graciously. “You have our ear. You would seem to have something on your chest in addition to that Neapolitan ice garment which, I regret to see, you still flaunt. If it is one tithe as painful as that, you have my sympathy. Jerk it out, Comrade Bristow.”

“Jackson isn’t half copping it from old Bick.”

“Isn’t⁠—? What exactly did you say?”

“He’s getting it hot on the carpet.”

“You wish to indicate,” said Psmith, “that there is some slight disturbance, some passing breeze between Comrades Jackson and Bickersdyke?”

Bristow chuckled.

“Breeze! Blooming hurricane, more like it. I was in Bick’s room just now with a letter to sign, and I tell you, the fur was flying all over the bally shop. There was old Bick cursing for all he was worth, and a little red-faced buffer puffing out his cheeks in an armchair.”

“We all have our hobbies,” said Psmith.

“Jackson wasn’t saying much. He jolly well hadn’t a chance. Old Bick was shooting it out fourteen to the dozen.”

“I have been privileged,” said Psmith, “to hear Comrade Bickersdyke speak both in his sanctum and in public. He has, as you suggest, a ready flow of speech. What, exactly was the cause of the turmoil?”

“I couldn’t wait to hear. I was too jolly glad to get away. Old Bick looked at me as if he could eat me, snatched the letter out of my hand, signed it, and waved his hand at the door as a hint to hop it. Which I jolly well did. He had started jawing Jackson again before I was out of the room.”

“While applauding his hustle,” said Psmith, “I fear that I must take official notice of this. Comrade Jackson is essentially a Sensitive Plant, highly strung, neurotic. I cannot have his nervous system jolted and disorganized in this manner, and his value as a confidential secretary and adviser impaired, even though it be only temporarily. I must look into this. I will go and see if the orgy is concluded. I will hear what Comrade Jackson has to say on the matter. I shall not act rashly, Comrade Bristow. If the man Bickersdyke is proved to have had good grounds for his outbreak, he shall escape uncensured. I may even look in on him and throw him a word of praise. But if I find, as I suspect, that he has wronged Comrade Jackson, I shall be forced to speak sharply to him.”

Mike had left the scene of battle by the time Psmith reached the Cash Department, and was sitting at his desk in a somewhat dazed condition, trying to clear his mind sufficiently to enable him to see exactly how matters stood as concerned himself. He felt confused and rattled. He had known, when he went to the manager’s room to make his statement, that there would be trouble. But, then, trouble is such an elastic word. It embraces a hundred degrees of meaning. Mike had expected sentence of dismissal, and he had got it. So far he had nothing to complain of. But he had not expected it to come to him riding high on the crest of a great,