14 Psmith in the City

‘Then I am prepared to bet a small sum that he is nuts on Manchester United. My dear Holmes, how—! Elementary, my dear fellow, quite elementary. But here comes the lad in person.’

Mr Rossiter turned in from the central aisle through the counter-door, and, observing the conversational group at the postage-desk, came bounding up. Bannister moved off.

‘Really, Smith,’ said Mr Rossiter, ‘you always seem to be talking. I have overlooked the matter once, as I did not wish to get you into trouble so soon after joining; but, really, it cannot go on. I must take notice of it.’

Psmith held up his hand.

‘The fault was mine,’ he said, with manly frankness. ‘Entirely mine. Bannister came in a purely professional spirit to deposit a letter with Comrade Jackson. I engaged him in conversation on the subject of the Football League, and I was just trying to correct his view that Newcastle United were the best team playing, when you arrived.’

‘It is perfectly absurd,’ said Mr Rossiter, ‘that you should waste the bank’s time in this way. The bank pays you to work, not to talk about professional football.’

‘Just so, just so,’ murmured Psmith.

‘There is too much talking in this department.’

‘I fear you are right.’

‘It is nonsense.’

‘My own view,’ said Psmith, ‘was that Manchester United were by far the finest team before the public.’

‘Get on with your work, Smith.’

Mr Rossiter stumped off to his desk, where he sat as one in thought.

‘Smith,’ he said at the end of five minutes.

Psmith slid from his stool, and made his way deferentially towards him.

‘Bannister’s a fool,’ snapped Mr Rossiter.

‘So I thought,’ said Psmith.

‘A perfect fool. He always was.’

Psmith shook his head sorrowfully, as who should say, ‘Exit Bannister.’

‘There is no team playing today to touch Manchester United.’

‘Precisely what I said to Comrade Bannister.’

‘Of course. You know something about it.’

‘The study of League football,’ said Psmith, ‘has been my relaxation for years.’

‘But we have no time to discuss it now.’

‘Assuredly not, sir. Work before everything.’

‘Some other time, when—’

‘—We are less busy. Precisely.’

Psmith moved back to his seat.

‘I fear,’ he said to Mike, as he resumed work, ‘that as far as Comrade Rossiter’s friendship and esteem are concerned, I have to a certain extent landed Comrade Bannister in the bouillon; but it was in a good cause. I fancy we have won through. Half an hour’s thoughtful perusal of the “Footballers’ Who’s Who”, just to find out some elementary facts about Manchester United, and I rather think the friendly Native is corralled. And now once more to work. Work, the hobby of the hustler and the deadbeat’s dread.’

9. The Haunting of Mr Bickersdyke

Anything in the nature of a rash and hasty move was wholly foreign to Psmith’s tactics. He had the patience which is the chief quality of the successful general. He was content to secure his base before making any offensive movement. It was a fortnight before he turned his attention to the education of Mr Bickersdyke. During that fortnight he conversed attractively, in the intervals of work, on the subject of League football in general and Manchester United in particular. The subject is not hard to master if one sets oneself earnestly to it; and Psmith spared no pains. The football editions of the evening papers are not reticent about those who play the game: and Psmith drank in every detail with the thoroughness of the conscientious student. By the end of the fortnight he knew what was the favourite breakfast-food of J. Turnbull; what Sandy Turnbull wore next his skin; and who, in the opinion of Meredith, was England’s leading politician. These facts, imparted to and discussed with Mr Rossiter, made the progress of the entente cordiale rapid. It was on the eighth day that Mr Rossiter consented to lunch with the Old Etonian. On the tenth he played the host. By the end of the fortnight the flapping of the white wings of Peace over the Postage Department was setting up a positive draught. Mike, who had been introduced by Psmith as a distant relative of Moger, the goalkeeper, was included in the great peace.

‘So that now,’ said Psmith, reflectively polishing his eyeglass, ‘I think that we may consider ourselves free to attend to Comrade Bickersdyke. Our bright little Mancunian friend would no more run us in now than if we were the brothers Turnbull. We are as inside forwards to him.’

The club to which Psmith and Mr Bickersdyke belonged was celebrated for the steadfastness of its political views, the excellence of its cuisine, and the curiously Gorgonzolaesque marble of its main staircase. It takes all sorts to make a world. It took about four thousand of all sorts to make the Senior Conservative Club. To be absolutely accurate, there were three thousand seven hundred and eighteen members.

To Mr Bickersdyke for the next week it seemed as if there was only one.

There was nothing crude or overdone about Psmith’s methods. The ordinary man, having conceived the idea of haunting a fellow clubman, might have seized the first opportunity of engaging him in conversation. Not so Psmith. The first time he met Mr Bickersdyke in the club was on the stairs after dinner one night. The great man, having