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Page 30
12. In a Nutshell
Mr Bickersdyke sat in his private room at the New Asiatic Bank with a
pile of newspapers before him. At least, the casual observer would have
said that it was Mr Bickersdyke. In reality, however, it was an active
volcano in the shape and clothes of the bank-manager. It was freely
admitted in the office that morning that the manager had lowered all
records with ease. The staff had known him to be in a bad temper
before--frequently; but his frame of mind on all previous occasions had
been, compared with his present frame of mind, that of a rather
exceptionally good-natured lamb. Within ten minutes of his arrival the
entire office was on the jump. The messengers were collected in a
pallid group in the basement, discussing the affair in whispers and
endeavouring to restore their nerve with about sixpenn'orth of the
beverage known as 'unsweetened'. The heads of departments, to a man,
had bowed before the storm. Within the space of seven minutes and a
quarter Mr Bickersdyke had contrived to find some fault with each of
them. Inward Bills was out at an A.B.C. shop snatching a hasty cup of
coffee, to pull him together again. Outward Bills was sitting at his
desk with the glazed stare of one who has been struck in the thorax by
a thunderbolt. Mr Rossiter had been torn from Psmith in the middle of a
highly technical discussion of the Manchester United match, just as he
was showing--with the aid of a ball of paper--how he had once seen
Meredith centre to Sandy Turnbull in a Cup match, and was now leaping
about like a distracted grasshopper. Mr Waller, head of the Cash
Department, had been summoned to the Presence, and after listening
meekly to a rush of criticism, had retired to his desk with the air of
a beaten spaniel.
Only one man of the many in the building seemed calm and happy--Psmith.
Psmith had resumed the chat about Manchester United, on Mr Rossiter's
return from the lion's den, at the spot where it had been broken off;
but, finding that the head of the Postage Department was in no mood for
discussing football (or any thing else), he had postponed his remarks
and placidly resumed his work.
Mr Bickersdyke picked up a paper, opened it, and began searching the
columns. He had not far to look. It was a slack season for the
newspapers, and his little trouble, which might have received a
paragraph in a busy week, was set forth fully in three-quarters of a
column.
The column was headed, 'Amusing Heckling'.
Mr Bickersdyke read a few lines, and crumpled the paper up with a
snort.
The next he examined was an organ of his own shade of political
opinion. It too, gave him nearly a column, headed 'Disgraceful Scene at
Kenningford'. There was also a leaderette on the subject.
The leaderette said so exactly what Mr Bickersdyke thought himself that
for a moment he was soothed. Then the thought of his grievance
returned, and he pressed the bell.
'Send Mr Smith to me,' he said.
William, the messenger, proceeded to inform Psmith of the summons.
Psmith's face lit up.
'I am always glad to sweeten the monotony of toil with a chat with
Little Clarence,' he said. 'I shall be with him in a moment.'
He cleaned his pen very carefully, placed it beside his ledger, flicked
a little dust off his coatsleeve, and made his way to the manager's
room.
Mr Bickersdyke received him with the ominous restraint of a tiger
crouching for its spring. Psmith stood beside the table with languid
grace, suggestive of some favoured confidential secretary waiting for
instructions.
A ponderous silence brooded over the room for some moments. Psmith
broke it by remarking that the Bank Rate was unchanged. He mentioned
this fact as if it afforded him a personal gratification.
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