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Page 13
'Who are you?' snapped Mr Rossiter, turning on him.
'I shall be delighted, Comrade--'
'Rossiter,' said Mike, aside.
'Comrade Rossiter. I shall be delighted to furnish you with particulars
of my family history. As follows. Soon after the Norman Conquest, a
certain Sieur de Psmith grew tired of work--a family failing,
alas!--and settled down in this country to live peacefully for the
remainder of his life on what he could extract from the local
peasantry. He may be described as the founder of the family which
ultimately culminated in Me. Passing on--'
Mr Rossiter refused to pass on.
'What are you doing here? What have you come for?'
'Work,' said Psmith, with simple dignity. 'I am now a member of the
staff of this bank. Its interests are my interests. Psmith, the
individual, ceases to exist, and there springs into being Psmith, the
cog in the wheel of the New Asiatic Bank; Psmith, the link in the
bank's chain; Psmith, the Worker. I shall not spare myself,' he
proceeded earnestly. 'I shall toil with all the accumulated energy of
one who, up till now, has only known what work is like from hearsay.
Whose is that form sitting on the steps of the bank in the morning,
waiting eagerly for the place to open? It is the form of Psmith, the
Worker. Whose is that haggard, drawn face which bends over a ledger
long after the other toilers have sped blithely westwards to dine at
Lyons' Popular Cafe? It is the face of Psmith, the Worker.'
'I--' began Mr Rossiter.
'I tell you,' continued Psmith, waving aside the interruption and
tapping the head of the department rhythmically in the region of the
second waistcoat-button with a long finger, 'I tell _you_, Comrade
Rossiter, that you have got hold of a good man. You and I together, not
forgetting Comrade Jackson, the pet of the Smart Set, will toil early
and late till we boost up this Postage Department into a shining model
of what a Postage Department should be. What that is, at present, I do
not exactly know. However. Excursion trains will be run from distant
shires to see this Postage Department. American visitors to London will
do it before going on to the Tower. And now,' he broke off, with a
crisp, businesslike intonation, 'I must ask you to excuse me. Much as I
have enjoyed this little chat, I fear it must now cease. The time has
come to work. Our trade rivals are getting ahead of us. The whisper
goes round, "Rossiter and Psmith are talking, not working," and other
firms prepare to pinch our business. Let me Work.'
Two minutes later, Mr Rossiter was sitting at his desk with a dazed
expression, while Psmith, perched gracefully on a stool, entered
figures in a ledger.
6. Psmith Explains
For the space of about twenty-five minutes Psmith sat in silence,
concentrated on his ledger, the picture of the model bank-clerk. Then
he flung down his pen, slid from his stool with a satisfied sigh, and
dusted his waistcoat. 'A commercial crisis,' he said, 'has passed. The
job of work which Comrade Rossiter indicated for me has been completed
with masterly skill. The period of anxiety is over. The bank ceases to
totter. Are you busy, Comrade Jackson, or shall we chat awhile?'
Mike was not busy. He had worked off the last batch of letters, and
there was nothing to do but to wait for the next, or--happy thought--to
take the present batch down to the post, and so get out into the
sunshine and fresh air for a short time. 'I rather think I'll nip down
to the post-office,' said he, 'You couldn't come too, I suppose?'
'On the contrary,' said Psmith, 'I could, and will. A stroll will just
restore those tissues which the gruelling work of the last half-hour
has wasted away. It is a fearful strain, this commercial toil. Let us
trickle towards the post office. I will leave my hat and gloves as a
guarantee of good faith. The cry will go round, "Psmith has gone! Some
rival institution has kidnapped him!" Then they will see my hat,'--he
built up a foundation of ledgers, planted a long ruler in the middle,
and hung his hat on it--'my gloves,'--he stuck two pens into the desk
and hung a lavender glove on each--'and they will sink back swooning
with relief. The awful suspense will be over. They will say, "No, he
has not gone permanently. Psmith will return. When the fields are white
with daisies he'll return." And now, Comrade Jackson, lead me to this
picturesque little post-office of yours of which I have heard so much.'
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