Mr. Gregory, who was ruling a line in a ledger—most of the work in the Fixed Deposits Department consisted of ruling lines in ledgers, sometimes in black ink, sometimes in red—started as if he had been stung, and made a complete mess of the ruled line. He lifted a fiery, bearded face, and met Psmith’s eye, which shone with kindly sympathy.
He found words.
“What the dickens are you standing there for, mooing like a blanked cow?” he inquired.
“I was groaning,” explained Psmith with quiet dignity. “And why was I groaning?” he continued. “Because a shadow has fallen on the Fixed Deposits Department. Comrade Jackson, the Pride of the Office, has gone.”
Mr. Gregory rose from his seat.
“I don’t know who the dickens you are—” he began.
“I am Psmith,” said the old Etonian.
“Oh, you’re Smith, are you?”
“With a preliminary P. Which, however, is not sounded.”
“And what’s all this dashed nonsense about Jackson?”
“He is gone. Gone like the dew from the petal of a rose.”
“Gone! Where’s he gone to?”
“Lord’s.”
“What lord’s?”
Psmith waved his hand gently.
“You misunderstand me. Comrade Jackson has not gone to mix with any member of our gay and thoughtless aristocracy. He has gone to Lord’s cricket ground.”
Mr. Gregory’s beard bristled even more than was its wont.
“What!” he roared. “Gone to watch a cricket match! Gone—!”
“Not to watch. To play. An urgent summons I need not say. Nothing but an urgent summons could have wrenched him from your very delightful society, I am sure.”
Mr. Gregory glared.
“I don’t want any of your impudence,” he said.
Psmith nodded gravely.
“We all have these curious likes and dislikes,” he said tolerantly. “You do not like my impudence. Well, well, some people don’t. And now, having broken the sad news, I will return to my own department.”
“Half a minute. You come with me and tell this yarn of yours to Mr. Bickersdyke.”
“You think it would interest, amuse him? Perhaps you are right. Let us buttonhole Comrade Bickersdyke.”
Mr. Bickersdyke was disengaged. The head of the Fixed Deposits Department stumped into the room. Psmith followed at a more leisurely pace.
“Allow me,” he said with a winning smile, as Mr. Gregory opened his mouth to speak, “to take this opportunity of congratulating you on your success at the election. A narrow but well-deserved victory.”
There was nothing cordial in the manager’s manner.
“What do you want?” he said.
“Myself, nothing,” said Psmith. “But I understand that Mr. Gregory has some communication to make.”
“Tell Mr. Bickersdyke that story of yours,” said Mr. Gregory.
“Surely,” said Psmith reprovingly, “this is no time for anecdotes. Mr. Bickersdyke is busy. He—”
“Tell him what you told me about Jackson.”
Mr. Bickersdyke looked up inquiringly.
“Jackson,” said Psmith, “has been obliged to absent himself from work today owing to an urgent summons from his brother, who, I understand, has suffered a bereavement.”
“It’s a lie,” roared Mr. Gregory. “You told me yourself he’d gone to play in a cricket match.”
“True. As I said, he received an urgent summons from his brother.”
“What about the bereavement, then?”
“The team was one short. His brother was very distressed about it. What could Comrade Jackson do? Could he refuse to help his brother when it was in his power? His generous nature is a byword. He did the only possible thing. He consented to play.”
Mr. Bickersdyke spoke.
“Am I to understand,” he asked, with sinister calm, “that Mr. Jackson has left his work and gone off to play in a cricket match?”
“Something of that sort has, I believe, happened,” said Psmith. “He knew, of course,” he added, bowing gracefully in Mr. Gregory’s direction, “that he was leaving his work in thoroughly competent hands.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Bickersdyke. “That will do. You will help Mr. Gregory in his department for the time being, Mr. Smith. I will arrange for somebody to take your place in your own department.”
“It will be a pleasure,” murmured Psmith.
“Show Mr. Smith what he has to do, Mr. Gregory,” said the manager.
They left the room.
“How curious, Comrade Gregory,” mused Psmith, as they went, “are the workings of Fate! A moment back, and your life was a blank. Comrade Jackson, that prince of Fixed Depositors, had gone. How, you said to yourself despairingly, can his place be filled? Then the cloud broke, and the sun shone out again. I came to help you. What you lose on the swings, you make up on the roundabouts. Now show me what I have to do, and then let us make this department sizzle. You have drawn a good ticket, Comrade Gregory.”
XXVII
At Lord’s
Mike got to Lord’s just as the umpires moved out into the field. He raced round to the pavilion. Joe met him on the stairs.
“It’s all right,” he said. “No hurry. We’ve won the toss. I’ve put you in fourth wicket.”
“Right ho,” said Mike. “Glad we haven’t to field just yet.”
“We oughtn’t to have to field today if we don’t chuck our wickets away.”
“Good wicket?”
“Like a billiard table. I’m glad you were able to come. Have any difficulty in getting away?”
Joe Jackson’s knowledge of the workings of a bank was of the slightest. He himself had never, since he left Oxford, been in a position where there were obstacles to getting off to play in first-class cricket. By profession he was agent to a sporting baronet whose hobby was the cricket of the county, and so, far from finding any difficulty in playing for the county, he was given to understand by his employer that that was his chief duty. It never occurred to him that Mike might find his bank less amenable in the matter of giving leave. His only fear, when he rang Mike up that morning, had been that this might be a particularly busy day at the New Asiatic Bank. If there was no special rush of work, he took it for granted that Mike would simply go to the manager, ask for leave to play in the match, and be given it with a beaming smile.
Mike did not answer the question, but asked one on his own account.
“How did you happen to
