“A remarkably intelligent boy,” said Psmith. “You must let him come to tea at our flat one day. I may not be in myself—I have many duties which keep me away—but Comrade Jackson is sure to be there, and will be delighted to chat with him.”
On the way upstairs Mike tried to get Psmith to himself for a moment to suggest the advisability of an early departure; but Psmith was in close conversation with his host. Mike was left to Comrade Prebble, who, apparently, had only touched the fringe of his subject in his lecture in the dining room.
When Mr. Waller had predicted hymns in the drawing-room, he had been too sanguine (or too pessimistic). Of Ada, when they arrived, there were no signs. It seemed that she had gone straight to bed. Young Mr. Richards was sitting on the sofa, moodily turning the leaves of a photograph album, which contained portraits of Master Edward Waller in geometrically progressing degrees of repulsiveness—here, in frocks, looking like a gargoyle; there, in sailor suit, looking like nothing on earth. The inspection of these was obviously deepening Mr. Richards’ gloom, but he proceeded doggedly with it.
Comrade Prebble backed the reluctant Mike into a corner, and, like the Ancient Mariner, held him with a glittering eye. Psmith and Mr. Waller, in the opposite corner, were looking at something with their heads close together. Mike definitely abandoned all hope of a rescue from Psmith, and tried to buoy himself up with the reflection that this could not last forever.
Hours seemed to pass, and then at last he heard Psmith’s voice saying goodbye to his host.
He sprang to his feet. Comrade Prebble was in the middle of a sentence, but this was no time for polished courtesy. He felt that he must get away, and at once. “I fear,” Psmith was saying, “that we must tear ourselves away. We have greatly enjoyed our evening. You must look us up at our flat one day, and bring Comrade Prebble. If I am not in, Comrade Jackson is certain to be, and he will be more than delighted to hear Comrade Prebble speak further on the subject of which he is such a master.” Comrade Prebble was understood to say that he would certainly come. Mr. Waller beamed. Mr. Richards, still steeped in gloom, shook hands in silence.
Out in the road, with the front door shut behind them, Mike spoke his mind.
“Look here, Smith,” he said definitely, “if being your confidential secretary and adviser is going to let me in for any more of that sort of thing, you can jolly well accept my resignation.”
“The orgy was not to your taste?” said Psmith sympathetically.
Mike laughed. One of those short, hollow, bitter laughs.
“I am at a loss, Comrade Jackson,” said Psmith, “to understand your attitude. You fed sumptuously. You had fun with the crockery—that knockabout act of yours with the water jug was alone worth the money—and you had the advantage of listening to the views of a master of his subject. What more do you want?”
“What on earth did you land me with that man Prebble for?”
“Land you! Why, you courted his society. I had practically to drag you away from him. When I got up to say goodbye, you were listening to him with bulging eyes. I never saw such a picture of rapt attention. Do you mean to tell me, Comrade Jackson, that your appearance belied you, that you were not interested? Well, well. How we misread our fellow creatures.”
“I think you might have come and lent a hand with Prebble. It was a bit thick.”
“I was too absorbed with Comrade Waller. We were talking of things of vital moment. However, the night is yet young. We will take this cab, wend our way to the West, seek a café, and cheer ourselves with light refreshments.”
Arrived at a café whose window appeared to be a sort of museum of every kind of German sausage, they took possession of a vacant table and ordered coffee. Mike soon found himself soothed by his bright surroundings, and gradually his impressions of blancmange, Edward, and Comrade Prebble faded from his mind. Psmith, meanwhile, was preserving an unusual silence, being deep in a large square book of the sort in which Press cuttings are pasted. As Psmith scanned its contents a curious smile lit up his face. His reflections seemed to be of an agreeable nature.
“Hullo,” said Mike, “what have you got hold of there? Where did you get that?”
“Comrade Waller very kindly lent it to me. He showed it to me after supper, knowing how enthusiastically I was attached to the Cause. Had you been less tensely wrapped up in Comrade Prebble’s conversation, I would have desired you to step across and join us. However, you now have your opportunity.”
“But what is it?” asked Mike.
“It is the record of the meetings of the Tulse Hill Parliament,” said Psmith impressively. “A faithful record of all they said, all the votes of confidence they passed in the Government, and also all the nasty knocks they gave it from time to time.”
“What on earth’s the Tulse Hill Parliament?”
“It is, alas,” said Psmith in a grave, sad voice, “no more. In life it was beautiful, but now it has done the Tom Bowling act. It has gone aloft. We are dealing, Comrade Jackson, not with the live, vivid present, but with the far-off, rusty past. And yet, in a way, there is a touch of the live, vivid present mixed up in it.”
“I don’t know what the dickens you’re talking about,” said Mike. “Let’s have a look, anyway.”
Psmith handed him the volume, and, leaning back, sipped his coffee, and watched him. At first Mike’s face was bored and blank, but suddenly an interested look came into it.
“Aha!” said Psmith.
“Who’s Bickersdyke? Anything to do with our Bickersdyke?”
“No other than our genial friend himself.”
Mike turned the pages, reading a line or
