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

“Then I’m afraid it’s off,” said Mike gloomily. “My pater couldn’t afford to send me to Cambridge.”

“That obstacle,” said Psmith, “can be surmounted. You would, of course, accompany me to Cambridge, in the capacity, which you enjoy at the present moment, of my confidential secretary and adviser. Any expenses that might crop up would be defrayed from the Psmith family chest.”

Mike’s eyes opened wide again.

“Do you mean,” he asked bluntly, “that your pater would pay for me at the ’Varsity? No I say⁠—dash it⁠—I mean, I couldn’t⁠—”

“Do you suggest,” said Psmith, raising his eyebrows, “that I should go to the University without a confidential secretary and adviser?”

“No, but I mean⁠—” protested Mike.

“Then that’s settled,” said Psmith. “I knew you would not desert me in my hour of need, Comrade Jackson. ‘What will you do,’ asked my father, alarmed for my safety, ‘among these wild undergraduates? I fear for my Rupert.’ ‘Have no fear, father,’ I replied. ‘Comrade Jackson will be beside me.’ His face brightened immediately. ‘Comrade Jackson,’ he said, ‘is a man in whom I have the supremest confidence. If he is with you I shall sleep easy of nights.’ It was after that that the conversation drifted to the subject of agents.”

Psmith called for the bill and paid it in the affable manner of a monarch signing a charter. Mike sat silent, his mind in a whirl. He saw exactly what had happened. He could almost hear Psmith talking his father into agreeing with his scheme. He could think of nothing to say. As usually happened in any emotional crisis in his life, words absolutely deserted him. The thing was too big. Anything he could say would sound too feeble. When a friend has solved all your difficulties and smoothed out all the rough places which were looming in your path, you cannot thank him as if he had asked you to lunch. The occasion demanded some neat, polished speech; and neat, polished speeches were beyond Mike.

“I say, Psmith⁠—” he began.

Psmith rose.

“Let us now,” he said, “collect our hats and meander to the club, where, I have no doubt, we shall find Comrade Bickersdyke, all unconscious of impending misfortune, dreaming pleasantly over coffee and a cigar in the lower smoking-room.”

As it happened, that was precisely what Mr. Bickersdyke was doing. He was feeling thoroughly pleased with life. For nearly nine months Psmith had been to him a sort of spectre at the feast inspiring him with an ever-present feeling of discomfort which he had found impossible to shake off. And tonight he saw his way of getting rid of him.

At five minutes past four Mr. Gregory, crimson and wrathful, had plunged into his room with a long statement of how Psmith, deputed to help in the life and thought of the Fixed Deposits Department, had left the building at four o’clock, when there was still another hour and a half’s work to be done.

Moreover, Mr. Gregory deposed, the errant one, seen sliding out of the swinging door, and summoned in a loud, clear voice to come back, had flatly disobeyed and had gone upon his ways “Grinning at me,” said the aggrieved Mr. Gregory, “like a dashed ape.” A most unjust description of the sad, sweet smile which Psmith had bestowed upon him from the doorway.

Ever since that moment Mr. Bickersdyke had felt that there was a silver lining to the cloud. Hitherto Psmith had left nothing to be desired in the manner in which he performed his work. His righteousness in the office had clothed him as in a suit of mail. But now he had slipped. To go off an hour and a half before the proper time, and to refuse to return when summoned by the head of his department⁠—these were offences for which he could be dismissed without fuss. Mr. Bickersdyke looked forward to tomorrow’s interview with his employee.

Meanwhile, having enjoyed an excellent dinner, he was now, as Psmith had predicted, engaged with a cigar and a cup of coffee in the lower smoking-room of the Senior Conservative Club.

Psmith and Mike entered the room when he was about half through these luxuries.

Psmith’s first action was to summon a waiter, and order a glass of neat brandy. “Not for myself,” he explained to Mike. “For Comrade Bickersdyke. He is about to sustain a nasty shock, and may need a restorative at a moment’s notice. For all we know, his heart may not be strong. In any case, it is safest to have a pick-me-up handy.”

He paid the waiter, and advanced across the room, followed by Mike. In his hand, extended at arm’s length, he bore the glass of brandy.

Mr. Bickersdyke caught sight of the procession, and started. Psmith set the brandy down very carefully on the table, beside the manager’s coffee cup, and, dropping into a chair, regarded him pityingly through his eyeglass. Mike, who felt embarrassed, took a seat some little way behind his companion. This was Psmith’s affair, and he proposed to allow him to do the talking.

Mr. Bickersdyke, except for a slight deepening of the colour of his complexion, gave no sign of having seen them. He puffed away at his cigar, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“An unpleasant task lies before us,” began Psmith in a low, sorrowful voice, “and it must not be shirked. Have I your ear, Mr. Bickersdyke?”

Addressed thus directly, the manager allowed his gaze to wander from the ceiling. He eyed Psmith for a moment like an elderly basilisk, then looked back at the ceiling again.

“I shall speak to you tomorrow,” he said.

Psmith heaved a heavy sigh.

“You will not see us tomorrow,” he said, pushing the brandy a little nearer.

Mr. Bickersdyke’s eyes left the ceiling once more.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Drink this,” urged Psmith sympathetically, holding out the glass. “Be brave,” he went on rapidly. “Time softens the harshest blows. Shocks stun us for the moment, but we recover. Little by little we come to ourselves again. Life, which we had thought could hold