Psmith in the City

were not his own. He would go out of his way to do this. Mike, like most boys of his age, was never really happy and at his ease except in the presence of those of his own years and class. Psmith, on the contrary, seemed to be bored by them, and infinitely preferred talking to somebody who lived in quite another world. Mike was not a snob. He simply had not the ability to be at his ease with people in another class from his own. He did not know what to talk to them about, unless they were cricket professionals. With them he was never at a loss.

But Psmith was different. He could get on with anyone. He seemed to have the gift of entering into their minds and seeing things from their point of view.

As regarded Mr. Waller, Mike liked him personally, and was prepared, as we have seen, to undertake considerable risks in his defence; but he loathed with all his heart and soul the idea of supper at his house. He knew that he would have nothing to say. Whereas Psmith gave him the impression of looking forward to the thing as a treat.

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The house where Mr. Waller lived was one of a row of semidetached villas on the north side of the Common. The door was opened to them by their host himself. So far from looking battered and emitting last breaths, he appeared particularly spruce. He had just returned from Church, and was still wearing his gloves and tall hat. He squeaked with surprise when he saw who were standing on the mat.

“Why, dear me, dear me,” he said. “Here you are! I have been wondering what had happened to you. I was afraid that you might have been seriously hurt. I was afraid those ruffians might have injured you. When last I saw you, you were being⁠—”

“Chivvied,” interposed Psmith, with dignified melancholy. “Do not let us try to wrap the fact up in pleasant words. We were being chivvied. We were legging it with the infuriated mob at our heels. An ignominious position for a Shropshire Psmith, but, after all, Napoleon did the same.”

“But what happened? I could not see. I only know that quite suddenly the people seemed to stop listening to me, and all gathered round you and Jackson. And then I saw that Jackson was engaged in a fight with a young man.”

“Comrade Jackson, I imagine, having heard a great deal about all men being equal, was anxious to test the theory, and see whether Comrade Bill was as good a man as he was. The experiment was broken off prematurely, but I personally should be inclined to say that Comrade Jackson had a shade the better of the exchanges.”

Mr. Waller looked with interest at Mike, who shuffled and felt awkward. He was hoping that Psmith would say nothing about the reason of his engaging Bill in combat. He had an uneasy feeling that Mr. Waller’s gratitude would be effusive and overpowering, and he did not wish to pose as the brave young hero. There are moments when one does not feel equal to the role.

Fortunately, before Mr. Waller had time to ask any further questions, the supper bell sounded, and they went into the dining room.

Sunday supper, unless done on a large and informal scale, is probably the most depressing meal in existence. There is a chill discomfort in the round of beef, an icy severity about the open jam tart. The blancmange shivers miserably.

Spirituous liquor helps to counteract the influence of these things, and so does exhilarating conversation. Unfortunately, at Mr. Waller’s table there was neither. The cashier’s views on temperance were not merely for the platform; they extended to the home. And the company was not of the exhilarating sort. Besides Psmith and Mike and their host, there were four people present⁠—Comrade Prebble, the orator; a young man of the name of Richards; Mr. Waller’s niece, answering to the name of Ada, who was engaged to Mr. Richards; and Edward.

Edward was Mr. Waller’s son. He was ten years old, wore a very tight Eton suit, and had the peculiarly loathsome expression which a snub nose sometimes gives to the young.

It would have been plain to the most casual observer that Mr. Waller was fond and proud of his son. The cashier was a widower, and after five minutes’ acquaintance with Edward, Mike felt strongly that Mrs. Waller was the lucky one. Edward sat next to Mike, and showed a tendency to concentrate his conversation on him. Psmith, at the opposite end of the table, beamed in a fatherly manner upon the pair through his eyeglass.

Mike got on with small girls reasonably well. He preferred them at a distance, but, if cornered by them, could put up a fairly good show. Small boys, however, filled him with a sort of frozen horror. It was his view that a boy should not be exhibited publicly until he reached an age when he might be in the running for some sort of colours at a public school.

Edward was one of those well-informed small boys. He opened on Mike with the first mouthful.

“Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles?” he inquired.

“What?” said Mike coldly.

“Do you know the principal exports of Marseilles? I do.”

“Oh?” said Mike.

“Yes. Do you know the capital of Madagascar?”

Mike, as crimson as the beef he was attacking, said he did not.

“I do.”

“Oh?” said Mike.

“Who was the first king⁠—”

“You mustn’t worry Mr. Jackson, Teddy,” said Mr. Waller, with a touch of pride in his voice, as who should say “There are not many boys of his age, I can tell you, who could worry you with questions like that.”

“No, no, he likes it,” said Psmith, unnecessarily. “He likes it. I always hold that much may be learned by casual chitchat across the dinner table. I owe much of my own grasp of⁠—”

“I bet you don’t know what’s the capital of Madagascar,” interrupted Mike rudely.

“I do,” said Edward. “I can tell you the kings of Israel?” he added, turning to Mike.