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

“Hullo. Is that Comrade Jackson? How are things progressing?”

“Fairly well. We’re in first. We’ve lost one wicket, and the fifty’s just up. I say, what’s happened at the bank?”

“I broke the news to Comrade Gregory. A charming personality. I feel that we shall be friends.”

“Was he sick?”

“In a measure, yes. Indeed, I may say he practically foamed at the mouth. I explained the situation, but he was not to be appeased. He jerked me into the presence of Comrade Bickersdyke, with whom I had a brief but entertaining chat. He had not a great deal to say, but he listened attentively to my narrative, and eventually told me off to take your place in the Fixed Deposits. That melancholy task I am now performing to the best of my ability. I find the work a little trying. There is too much ledger-lugging to be done for my simple tastes. I have been hauling ledgers from the safe all the morning. The cry is beginning to go round, ‘Psmith is willing, but can his physique stand the strain?’ In the excitement of the moment just now I dropped a somewhat massive tome on to Comrade Gregory’s foot, unfortunately, I understand, the foot in which he has of late been suffering twinges of gout. I passed the thing off with ready tact, but I cannot deny that there was a certain temporary coolness, which, indeed, is not yet past. These things, Comrade Jackson, are the whirlpools in the quiet stream of commercial life.”

“Have I got the sack?”

“No official pronouncement has been made to me as yet on the subject, but I think I should advise you, if you are offered another job in the course of the day, to accept it. I cannot say that you are precisely the pet of the management just at present. However, I have ideas for your future, which I will divulge when we meet. I propose to slide coyly from the office at about four o’clock. I am meeting my father at that hour. We shall come straight on to Lord’s.”

“Right ho,” said Mike. “I’ll be looking out for you.”

“Is there any little message I can give Comrade Gregory from you?”

“You can give him my love, if you like.”

“It shall be done. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Mike replaced the receiver, and went up to his balcony again.

As soon as his eye fell on the telegraph board he saw with a start that things had been moving rapidly in his brief absence. The numbers of the batsmen on the board were three and five.

“Great Scott!” he cried. “Why, I’m in next. What on earth’s been happening?”

He put on his pads hurriedly, expecting every moment that a wicket would fall and find him unprepared. But the batsmen were still together when he rose, ready for the fray, and went downstairs to get news.

He found his brother Reggie in the dressing room.

“What’s happened?” he said. “How were you out?”

“L.B.W.,” said Reggie. “Goodness knows how it happened. My eyesight must be going. I mistimed the thing altogether.”

“How was Warrington out?”

“Caught in the slips.”

“By Jove!” said Mike. “This is pretty rocky. Three for sixty-one. We shall get mopped.”

“Unless you and Joe do something. There’s no earthly need to get out. The wicket’s as good as you want, and the bowling’s nothing special. Well played, Joe!”

A beautiful glide to leg by the greatest of the Jacksons had rolled up against the pavilion rails. The fieldsmen changed across for the next over.

“If only Peters stops a bit⁠—” began Mike, and broke off. Peters’ off stump was lying at an angle of forty-five degrees.

“Well, he hasn’t,” said Reggie grimly. “Silly ass, why did he hit at that one? All he’d got to do was to stay in with Joe. Now it’s up to you. Do try and do something, or we’ll be out under the hundred.”

Mike waited till the outcoming batsman had turned in at the professionals’ gate. Then he walked down the steps and out into the open, feeling more nervous than he had felt since that far-off day when he had first gone in to bat for Wrykyn against the M.C.C. He found his thoughts flying back to that occasion. Today, as then, everything seemed very distant and unreal. The spectators were miles away. He had often been to Lord’s as a spectator, but the place seemed entirely unfamiliar now. He felt as if he were in a strange land.

He was conscious of Joe leaving the crease to meet him on his way. He smiled feebly. “Buck up,” said Joe in that robust way of his which was so heartening. “Nothing in the bowling, and the wicket like a shirtfront. Play just as if you were at the nets. And for goodness’ sake don’t try to score all your runs in the first over. Stick in, and we’ve got them.”

Mike smiled again more feebly than before, and made a weird gurgling noise in his throat.

It had been the Middlesex fast bowler who had destroyed Peters. Mike was not sorry. He did not object to fast bowling. He took guard, and looked round him, taking careful note of the positions of the slips.

As usual, once he was at the wicket the paralysed feeling left him. He became conscious again of his power. Dash it all, what was there to be afraid of? He was a jolly good bat, and he would jolly well show them that he was, too.

The fast bowler, with a preliminary bound, began his run. Mike settled himself into position, his whole soul concentrated on the ball. Everything else was wiped from his mind.

It was exactly four o’clock when Psmith, sliding unostentatiously from his stool, flicked diverse pieces of dust from the leg of his trousers, and sidled towards the basement, where he was wont to keep his hat during business hours. He was aware that it would be a matter of some delicacy to leave the bank at that hour.