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Page 12
The time crept slowly on to one o'clock. At two minutes past Mike awoke
from a day-dream to find Mr Waller standing by his side. The cashier
had his hat on.
'I wonder,' said Mr Waller, 'if you would care to come out to lunch. I
generally go about this time, and Mr Rossiter, I know, does not go out
till two. I thought perhaps that, being unused to the City, you might
have some difficulty in finding your way about.'
'It's awfully good of you,' said Mike. 'I should like to.'
The other led the way through the streets and down obscure alleys till
they came to a chop-house. Here one could have the doubtful pleasure of
seeing one's chop in its various stages of evolution. Mr Waller ordered
lunch with the care of one to whom lunch is no slight matter. Few
workers in the City do regard lunch as a trivial affair. It is the
keynote of their day. It is an oasis in a desert of ink and ledgers.
Conversation in city office deals, in the morning, with what one is
going to have for lunch, and in the afternoon with what one has had for
lunch.
At intervals during the meal Mr Waller talked. Mike was content to
listen. There was something soothing about the grey-bearded one.
'What sort of a man is Bickersdyke?' asked Mike.
'A very able man. A very able man indeed. I'm afraid he's not popular
in the office. A little inclined, perhaps, to be hard on mistakes. I
can remember the time when he was quite different. He and I were fellow
clerks in Morton and Blatherwick's. He got on better than I did. A
great fellow for getting on. They say he is to be the Unionist
candidate for Kenningford when the time comes. A great worker, but
perhaps not quite the sort of man to be generally popular in an
office.'
'He's a blighter,' was Mike's verdict. Mr Waller made no comment. Mike
was to learn later that the manager and the cashier, despite the fact
that they had been together in less prosperous days--or possibly
because of it--were not on very good terms. Mr Bickersdyke was a man of
strong prejudices, and he disliked the cashier, whom he looked down
upon as one who had climbed to a lower rung of the ladder than he
himself had reached.
As the hands of the chop-house clock reached a quarter to two, Mr
Waller rose, and led the way back to the office, where they parted for
their respective desks. Gratitude for any good turn done to him was a
leading characteristic of Mike's nature, and he felt genuinely grateful
to the cashier for troubling to seek him out and be friendly to him.
His three-quarters-of-an-hour absence had led to the accumulation of a
small pile of letters on his desk. He sat down and began to work them
off. The addresses continued to exercise a fascination for him. He was
miles away from the office, speculating on what sort of a man J. B.
Garside, Esq, was, and whether he had a good time at his house in
Worcestershire, when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.
He looked up.
Standing by his side, immaculately dressed as ever, with his eye-glass
fixed and a gentle smile on his face, was Psmith.
Mike stared.
'Commerce,' said Psmith, as he drew off his lavender gloves, 'has
claimed me for her own. Comrade of old, I, too, have joined this
blighted institution.'
As he spoke, there was a whirring noise in the immediate neighbourhood,
and Mr Rossiter buzzed out from his den with the _esprit_ and
animation of a clock-work toy.
'Who's here?' said Psmith with interest, removing his eye-glass,
polishing it, and replacing it in his eye.
'Mr Jackson,' exclaimed Mr Rossiter. 'I really must ask you to be good
enough to come in from your lunch at the proper time. It was fully
seven minutes to two when you returned, and--'
'That little more,' sighed Psmith, 'and how much is it!'
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