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Page 25
'Ask Mr Smith--' began the manager. Then he paused. 'No, never mind,'
he added.
Harold remained in the doorway, puzzled.
'Don't stand there gaping at me, man,' cried Mr Bickersdyke, 'Go away.'
Harold retired and informed his brother, William, that in his,
Harold's, opinion, Mr Bickersdyke was off his chump.
'Off his onion,' said William, soaring a trifle higher in poetic
imagery.
'Barmy,' was the terse verdict of Samuel Jakes, the third messenger.
'Always said so.' And with that the New Asiatic Bank staff of
messengers dismissed Mr Bickersdyke and proceeded to concentrate
themselves on their duties, which consisted principally of hanging
about and discussing the prophecies of that modern seer, Captain Coe.
What had made Mr Bickersdyke change his mind so abruptly was the sudden
realization of the fact that he had no case against Psmith. In his
capacity of manager of the bank he could not take official notice of
Psmith's behaviour outside office hours, especially as Psmith had done
nothing but stare at him. It would be impossible to make anybody
understand the true inwardness of Psmith's stare. Theoretically, Mr
Bickersdyke had the power to dismiss any subordinate of his whom he did
not consider satisfactory, but it was a power that had to be exercised
with discretion. The manager was accountable for his actions to the
Board of Directors. If he dismissed Psmith, Psmith would certainly
bring an action against the bank for wrongful dismissal, and on the
evidence he would infallibly win it. Mr Bickersdyke did not welcome the
prospect of having to explain to the Directors that he had let the
shareholders of the bank in for a fine of whatever a discriminating
jury cared to decide upon, simply because he had been stared at while
playing bridge. His only hope was to catch Psmith doing his work badly.
He touched the bell again, and sent for Mr Rossiter.
The messenger found the head of the Postage Department in conversation
with Psmith. Manchester United had been beaten by one goal to nil on
the previous afternoon, and Psmith was informing Mr Rossiter that the
referee was a robber, who had evidently been financially interested in
the result of the game. The way he himself looked at it, said Psmith,
was that the thing had been a moral victory for the United. Mr Rossiter
said yes, he thought so too. And it was at this moment that Mr
Bickersdyke sent for him to ask whether Psmith's work was satisfactory.
The head of the Postage Department gave his opinion without hesitation.
Psmith's work was about the hottest proposition he had ever struck.
Psmith's work--well, it stood alone. You couldn't compare it with
anything. There are no degrees in perfection. Psmith's work was
perfect, and there was an end to it.
He put it differently, but that was the gist of what he said.
Mr Bickersdyke observed he was glad to hear it, and smashed a nib by
stabbing the desk with it.
It was on the evening following this that the bank-manager was due to
address a meeting at the Kenningford Town Hall.
He was looking forward to the event with mixed feelings. He had stood
for Parliament once before, several years back, in the North. He had
been defeated by a couple of thousand votes, and he hoped that the
episode had been forgotten. Not merely because his defeat had been
heavy. There was another reason. On that occasion he had stood as a
Liberal. He was standing for Kenningford as a Unionist. Of course, a
man is at perfect liberty to change his views, if he wishes to do so,
but the process is apt to give his opponents a chance of catching him
(to use the inspired language of the music-halls) on the bend. Mr
Bickersdyke was rather afraid that the light-hearted electors of
Kenningford might avail themselves of this chance.
Kenningford, S.E., is undoubtedly by way of being a tough sort of
place. Its inhabitants incline to a robust type of humour, which finds
a verbal vent in catch phrases and expends itself physically in
smashing shop-windows and kicking policemen. He feared that the meeting
at the Town Hall might possibly be a trifle rowdy.
All political meetings are very much alike. Somebody gets up and
introduces the speaker of the evening, and then the speaker of the
evening says at great length what he thinks of the scandalous manner in
which the Government is behaving or the iniquitous goings-on of the
Opposition. From time to time confederates in the audience rise and ask
carefully rehearsed questions, and are answered fully and
satisfactorily by the orator. When a genuine heckler interrupts, the
orator either ignores him, or says haughtily that he can find him
arguments but cannot find him brains. Or, occasionally, when the
question is an easy one, he answers it. A quietly conducted political
meeting is one of England's most delightful indoor games. When the
meeting is rowdy, the audience has more fun, but the speaker a good
deal less.
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