‘A somewhat nervous excitable man, Mr Bickersdyke, I should say,’ he observed.
‘A somewhat dashed, blanked idiot,’ emended the bank-manager’s late partner. ‘Thank goodness he lost as much as I did. That’s some light consolation.’
Psmith arrived at the flat to find Mike still out. Mike had repaired to the Gaiety earlier in the evening to refresh his mind after the labours of the day. When he returned, Psmith was sitting in an armchair with his feet on the mantelpiece, musing placidly on Life.
‘Well?’ said Mike.
‘Well? And how was the Gaiety? Good show?’
‘Jolly good. What about Bickersdyke?’
Psmith looked sad.
‘I cannot make Comrade Bickersdyke out,’ he said. ‘You would think that a man would be glad to see the son of a personal friend. On the contrary, I may be wronging Comrade B., but I should almost be inclined to say that my presence in the Senior Conservative Club tonight irritated him. There was no
10. Mr Bickersdyke Addresses His Constituents
It was noted by the observant at the bank next morning that Mr Bickersdyke had something on his mind. William, the messenger, knew it, when he found his respectful salute ignored. Little Briggs, the accountant, knew it when his obsequious but cheerful ‘Good morning’ was acknowledged only by a ‘Morn” which was almost an oath. Mr Bickersdyke passed up the aisle and into his room like an east wind. He sat down at his table and pressed the bell. Harold, William’s brother and co-messenger, entered with the air of one ready to duck if any missile should be thrown at him. The reports of the manager’s frame of mind had been circulated in the office, and Harold felt somewhat apprehensive. It was on an occasion very similar to this that George Barstead, formerly in the employ of the New Asiatic Bank in the capacity of messenger, had been rash enough to laugh at what he had taken for a joke of Mr Bickersdyke’s, and had been instantly presented with the sack for gross impertinence.
‘Ask Mr Smith—’ began the manager. Then he paused. ‘No, never mind,’ he added.
Harold remained in the doorway, puzzled.
‘Don’t stand there gaping at me, man,’ cried Mr Bickersdyke, ‘Go away.’
Harold retired and informed his brother, William, that in his, Harold’s, opinion, Mr Bickersdyke was off his chump.
‘Off his onion,’ said William, soaring a trifle higher in poetic imagery.
‘Barmy,’ was the terse verdict of Samuel Jakes, the third messenger. ‘Always said so.’ And with that the New Asiatic Bank staff of messengers dismissed Mr Bickersdyke and proceeded to concentrate themselves on their duties, which consisted principally of hanging about and discussing the prophecies of that modern seer, Captain Coe.
What had made Mr Bickersdyke change his mind so abruptly was the sudden realization of the fact that he had no case against Psmith. In his capacity of manager of the bank he could not take official notice of Psmith’s behaviour outside office hours, especially as Psmith had done nothing but stare at him. It would be impossible to make anybody understand the true inwardness of Psmith’s stare. Theoretically, Mr Bickersdyke had the power to dismiss any subordinate of his whom he did not consider satisfactory, but it was a power that had to be exercised with discretion. The manager was accountable for his actions to the Board of Directors. If he dismissed Psmith, Psmith would certainly bring an action against the bank for wrongful dismissal, and on the evidence he would infallibly win it. Mr Bickersdyke did not welcome the prospect of having to explain to the Directors that he had let the shareholders of the bank in for a fine of whatever a discriminating jury cared to decide upon, simply because he had been stared at while playing bridge. His only hope was to catch Psmith doing his work badly.
He touched the bell again, and sent for Mr Rossiter.
The messenger found the head of the Postage Department in conversation with Psmith. Manchester United had been beaten by one goal to nil on the previous afternoon, and Psmith was informing Mr Rossiter that the referee was a robber, who had evidently been financially interested in the result of the game. The way he himself looked at it, said Psmith, was that the thing had been a moral victory for the United. Mr Rossiter said yes, he thought so too. And it was at this moment that Mr Bickersdyke sent for him to ask whether Psmith’s work was satisfactory.
The head of the Postage Department gave his opinion without hesitation. Psmith’s work was about the hottest proposition he had ever struck. Psmith’s work—well, it stood alone. You couldn’t compare it with anything. There are no degrees in perfection. Psmith’s work was perfect, and there was an end to it.
He put it differently, but that was the gist of what he said.
Mr Bickersdyke observed he was glad to hear it, and smashed a nib by stabbing the desk with it.
It was on the evening following this that the bank-manager was due to address a meeting at the Kenningford Town Hall.
He was looking forward to the event with mixed feelings. He had stood for Parliament once before, several years back, in the North. He had been defeated by a couple of thousand votes, and he hoped that the episode had been forgotten. Not merely because his defeat had been heavy. There was another reason. On that occasion he had stood as a Liberal. He was standing for Kenningford as a Unionist. Of course, a man is at perfect liberty to change his views, if he wishes to do so, but the process is apt to give his opponents a chance of catching him (to use the inspired language of the music-halls) on the bend. Mr Bickersdyke was rather afraid that the lighthearted electors of Kenningford might avail themselves of this chance.
Kenningford, S.E., is undoubtedly by way of being a tough sort of place. Its inhabitants incline to a robust type of humour, which finds a verbal vent in catch phrases and expends itself physically in smashing shop-windows and kicking policemen. He feared that the meeting at the Town Hall might possibly be a trifle rowdy.
