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

had happened yesterday. It had been a speech of his own which had called forth the above expression of opinion from Strowther. He remembered Strowther now, a pale, spectacled clerk in Baxter and Abrahams, an inveterate upholder of the throne, the House of Lords and all constituted authority. Strowther had objected to the socialistic sentiments of his speech in connection with the Budget, and there had been a disturbance unparalleled even in the Tulse Hill Parliament, where disturbances were frequent and loud.⁠ ⁠…

Psmith looked across at him with a bright smile. “They report you verbatim,” he said. “And rightly. A more able speech I have seldom read. I like the bit where you call the Royal Family ‘bloodsuckers.’ Even then, it seems you knew how to express yourself fluently and well.”

Mr. Bickersdyke sat up. The hands of the clock had moved again, and he was back in what Psmith had called the live, vivid present.

“What have you got there?” he demanded.

“It is a record,” said Psmith, “of the meeting of an institution called the Tulse Hill Parliament. A bright, chatty little institution, too, if one may judge by these reports. You in particular, if I may say so, appear to have let yourself go with refreshing vim. Your political views have changed a great deal since those days, have they not? It is extremely interesting. A most fascinating study for political students. When I send these speeches of yours to the Clarion⁠—”

Mr. Bickersdyke bounded on his sofa.

“What!” he cried.

“I was saying,” said Psmith, “that the Clarion will probably make a most interesting comparison between these speeches and those you have been making at Kenningford.”

“I⁠—I⁠—I forbid you to make any mention of these speeches.”

Psmith hesitated.

“It would be great fun seeing what the papers said,” he protested.

“Great fun!”

“It is true,” mused Psmith, “that in a measure, it would dish you at the election. From what I saw of those lighthearted lads at Kenningford the other night, I should say they would be so amused that they would only just have enough strength left to stagger to the poll and vote for your opponent.”

Mr. Bickersdyke broke out into a cold perspiration.

“I forbid you to send those speeches to the papers,” he cried.

Psmith reflected.

“You see,” he said at last, “it is like this. The departure of Comrade Jackson, my confidential secretary and adviser, is certain to plunge me into a state of the deepest gloom. The only way I can see at present by which I can ensure even a momentary lightening of the inky cloud is the sending of these speeches to some bright paper like the Clarion. I feel certain that their comments would wring, at any rate, a sad, sweet smile from me. Possibly even a hearty laugh. I must, therefore, look on these very able speeches of yours in something of the light of an antidote. They will stand between me and black depression. Without them I am in the cart. With them I may possibly buoy myself up.”

Mr. Bickersdyke shifted uneasily on his sofa. He glared at the floor. Then he eyed the ceiling as if it were a personal enemy of his. Finally he looked at Psmith. Psmith’s eyes were closed in peaceful meditation.

“Very well,” said he at last. “Jackson shall stop.”

Psmith came out of his thoughts with a start. “You were observing⁠—?” he said.

“I shall not dismiss Jackson,” said Mr. Bickersdyke.

Psmith smiled winningly.

“Just as I had hoped,” he said. “Your very justifiable anger melts before reflection. The storm subsides, and you are at leisure to examine the matter dispassionately. Doubts begin to creep in. Possibly, you say to yourself, I have been too hasty, too harsh. Justice must be tempered with mercy. I have caught Comrade Jackson bending, you add (still to yourself), but shall I press home my advantage too ruthlessly? No, you cry, I will abstain. And I applaud your action. I like to see this spirit of gentle toleration. It is bracing and comforting. As for these excellent speeches,” he added, “I shall, of course, no longer have any need of their consolation. I can lay them aside. The sunlight can now enter and illumine my life through more ordinary channels. The cry goes round, ‘Psmith is himself again.’ ”

Mr. Bickersdyke said nothing. Unless a snort of fury may be counted as anything.

XXIV The Spirit of Unrest

During the following fortnight, two things happened which materially altered Mike’s position in the bank.

The first was that Mr. Bickersdyke was elected a member of Parliament. He got in by a small majority amidst scenes of disorder of a nature unusual even in Kenningford. Psmith, who went down on the polling day to inspect the revels and came back with his hat smashed in, reported that, as far as he could see, the electors of Kenningford seemed to be in just that state of happy intoxication which might make them vote for Mr. Bickersdyke by mistake. Also it had been discovered, on the eve of the poll, that the bank manager’s opponent, in his youth, had been educated at a school in Germany, and had subsequently spent two years at Heidelberg University. These damaging revelations were having a marked effect on the warmhearted patriots of Kenningford, who were now referring to the candidate in thick but earnest tones as “the German Spy.”

“So that taking everything into consideration,” said Psmith, summing up, “I fancy that Comrade Bickersdyke is home.”

And the papers next day proved that he was right.

“A hundred and fifty-seven,” said Psmith, as he read his paper at breakfast. “Not what one would call a slashing victory. It is fortunate for Comrade Bickersdyke, I think, that I did not send those very able speeches of his to the Clarion.”

Till now Mike had been completely at a loss to understand why the manager had sent for him on the morning following the scene about the cheque, and informed him that he had reconsidered his decision to dismiss him. Mike could not help feeling that there was more in the