bad effect of leading to an acute relapse in the matter of homesickness. The rose-garden at home had been one of Mike’s favourite haunts on a summer afternoon. The contrast between it and the basement of the new Asiatic Bank, the atmosphere of which was far from being roselike, was too much for his feelings. He emerged from the depths, with his punched stamps, filled with bitterness against Fate.
He found Psmith still baffled.
‘Hall Caine,’ said Psmith regretfully, ‘has also proved a frost. I wandered round to Comrade Rossiter’s desk just now with a rather brainy excursus on “The Eternal City”, and was received with the Impatient Frown rather than the Glad Eye. He was in the middle of adding up a rather tricky column of figures, and my remarks caused him to drop a stitch. So far from winning the man over, I have gone back. There now exists between Comrade Rossiter and myself a certain coldness. Further investigations will be postponed till after lunch.’
The postage department received visitors during the morning. Members of other departments came with letters, among them Bannister. Mr Rossiter was away in the manager’s room at the time.
‘How are you getting on?’ said Bannister to Mike.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Mike.
‘Had any trouble with Rossiter yet?’
‘No, not much.’
‘He hasn’t run you in to Bickersdyke?’
‘No.’
‘Pardon my interrupting a conversation between old college chums,’ said Psmith courteously, ‘but I happened to overhear, as I toiled at my desk, the name of Comrade Rossiter.’
Bannister looked somewhat startled. Mike introduced them.
‘This is Smith,’ he said. ‘Chap I was at school with. This is Bannister, Smith, who used to be on here till I came.’
‘In this department?’ asked Psmith.
‘Yes.’
‘Then, Comrade Bannister, you are the very man I have been looking for. Your knowledge will be invaluable to us. I have no doubt that, during your stay in this excellently managed department, you had many opportunities of observing Comrade Rossiter?’
‘I should jolly well think I had,’ said Bannister with a laugh. ‘He saw to that. He was always popping out and cursing me about something.’
‘Comrade Rossiter’s manners are a little restive,’ agreed Psmith. ‘What used you to talk to him about?’
‘What used I to talk to him about?’
‘Exactly. In those interviews to which you have alluded, how did you amuse, entertain Comrade Rossiter?’
‘I didn’t. He used to do all the talking there was.’
Psmith straightened his tie, and clicked his tongue, disappointed.
‘This is unfortunate,’ he said, smoothing his hair. ‘You see, Comrade Bannister, it is this way. In the course of my professional duties, I find myself continually coming into contact with Comrade Rossiter.’
‘I bet you do,’ said Bannister.
‘On these occasions I am frequently at a loss for entertaining conversation. He has no difficulty, as apparently happened in your case, in keeping up his end of the dialogue. The subject of my shortcomings provides him with ample material for speech. I, on the other hand, am dumb. I have nothing to say.’
‘I should think that was a bit of a change for you, wasn’t it?’
‘Perhaps, so,’ said Psmith, ‘perhaps so. On the other hand, however restful it may be to myself, it does not enable me to secure Comrade Rossiter’s interest and win his esteem.’
‘What Smith wants to know,’ said Mike, ‘is whether Rossiter has any hobby of any kind. He thinks, if he has, he might work it to keep in with him.’
Psmith, who had been listening with an air of pleased interest, much as a father would listen to his child prattling for the benefit of a visitor, confirmed this statement.
‘Comrade Jackson,’ he said, ‘has put the matter with his usual admirable clearness. That is the thing in a nutshell. Has Comrade Rossiter any hobby that you know of? Spillikins, brass-rubbing, the Near Eastern Question, or anything like that? I have tried him with postage-stamps (which you’d think, as head of a postage department, he ought to be interested in), and dried seaweed, Hall Caine, but I have the honour to report total failure. The man seems to have no pleasures. What does he do with himself when the day’s toil is ended? That giant brain must occupy itself somehow.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bannister, ‘unless it’s football. I saw him once watching Chelsea. I was rather surprised.’
‘Football,’ said Psmith thoughtfully, ‘football. By no means a scaly idea. I rather fancy, Comrade Bannister, that you have whanged the nail on the head. Is he strong on any particular team? I mean, have you ever heard him, in the intervals of business worries, stamping on his desk and yelling, “Buck up Cottagers!” or “Lay ‘em out, Pensioners!” or anything like that? One moment.’ Psmith held up his hand. ‘I will get my Sherlock Holmes system to work. What was the other team in the modern gladiatorial contest at which you saw Comrade Rossiter?’
‘Manchester United.’
‘And Comrade Rossiter, I should say, was a Manchester man.’
‘I believe he is.’
