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

Mr. Smith was enthusiastic.

“I tell you,” he said to Psmith, who was clapping in a gently encouraging manner, “the boy’s a wonderful bat. I said so when he was down with us. I remember telling him so myself. ‘I’ve seen your brothers play,’ I said, ‘and you’re better than any of them.’ I remember it distinctly. He’ll be playing for England in another year or two. Fancy putting a cricketer like that into the City! It’s a crime.”

“I gather,” said Psmith, “that the family coffers had got a bit low. It was necessary for Comrade Jackson to do something by way of saving the Old Home.”

“He ought to be at the University. Look, he’s got that man away to the boundary again. They’ll never get him out.”

At six o’clock the partnership was broken, Joe running himself out in trying to snatch a single where no single was. He had made a hundred and eighty-nine.

Mike flung himself down on the turf with mixed feelings. He was sorry Joe was out, but he was very glad indeed of the chance of a rest. He was utterly fagged. A half-day match once a week is no training for first-class cricket. Joe, who had been playing all the season, was as tough as india-rubber, and trotted into the pavilion as fresh as if he had been having a brief spell at the nets. Mike, on the other hand, felt that he simply wanted to be dropped into a cold bath and left there indefinitely. There was only another half-hour’s play, but he doubted if he could get through it.

He dragged himself up wearily as Joe’s successor arrived at the wickets. He had crossed Joe before the latter’s downfall, and it was his turn to take the bowling.

Something seemed to have gone out of him. He could not time the ball properly. The last ball of the over looked like a half-volley, and he hit out at it. But it was just short of a half-volley, and his stroke arrived too soon. The bowler, running in the direction of mid-on, brought off an easy c.-and-b.

Mike turned away towards the pavilion. He heard the gradually swelling applause in a sort of dream. It seemed to him hours before he reached the dressing room.

He was sitting on a chair, wishing that somebody would come along and take off his pads, when Psmith’s card was brought to him. A few moments later the old Etonian appeared in person.

“Hullo, Smith,” said Mike, “By Jove! I’m done.”

“ ‘How Little Willie Saved the Match,’ ” said Psmith. “What you want is one of those gin and ginger beers we hear so much about. Remove those pads, and let us flit downstairs in search of a couple. Well, Comrade Jackson, you have fought the good fight this day. My father sends his compliments. He is dining out, or he would have come up. He is going to look in at the flat latish.”

“How many did I get?” asked Mike. “I was so jolly done I didn’t think of looking.”

“A hundred and forty-eight of the best,” said Psmith. “What will they say at the old homestead about this? Are you ready? Then let us test this fruity old ginger beer of theirs.”

The two batsmen who had followed the big stand were apparently having a little stand all of their own. No more wickets fell before the drawing of stumps. Psmith waited for Mike while he changed, and carried him off in a cab to Simpson’s, a restaurant which, as he justly observed, offered two great advantages, namely, that you need not dress, and, secondly, that you paid your half-crown, and were then at liberty to eat till you were helpless, if you felt so disposed, without extra charge.

Mike stopped short of this giddy height of mastication, but consumed enough to make him feel a great deal better. Psmith eyed his inroads on the menu with approval.

“There is nothing,” he said, “like victualling up before an ordeal.”

“What’s the ordeal?” said Mike.

“I propose to take you round to the club anon, where I trust we shall find Comrade Bickersdyke. We have much to say to one another.”

“Look here, I’m hanged⁠—” began Mike.

“Yes, you must be there,” said Psmith. “Your presence will serve to cheer Comrade B. up. Fate compels me to deal him a nasty blow, and he will want sympathy. I have got to break it to him that I am leaving the bank.”

“What, are you going to chuck it?”

Psmith inclined his head.

“The time,” he said, “has come to part. It has served its turn. The startled whisper runs round the City. ‘Psmith has had sufficient.’ ”

“What are you going to do?”

“I propose to enter the University of Cambridge, and there to study the intricacies of the Law, with a view to having a subsequent dash at becoming Lord Chancellor.”

“By Jove!” said Mike, “you’re lucky. I wish I were coming too.”

Psmith knocked the ash off his cigarette.

“Are you absolutely set on becoming a pro?” he asked.

“It depends on what you call set. It seems to me it’s about all I can do.”

“I can offer you a not entirely scaly job,” said Smith, “if you feel like taking it. In the course of conversation with my father during the match this afternoon, I gleaned the fact that he is anxious to secure your services as a species of agent. The vast Psmith estates, it seems, need a bright boy to keep an eye upon them. Are you prepared to accept the post?”

Mike stared.

“Me! Dash it all, how old do you think I am? I’m only nineteen.”

“I had suspected as much from the alabaster clearness of your unwrinkled brow. But my father does not wish you to enter upon your duties immediately. There would be a preliminary interval of three, possibly four, years at Cambridge, during which I presume, you would be learning diverse facts concerning spuds, turmuts, and the like. At least,” said Psmith airily, “I suppose so. Far be it from me to dictate the line