What had made Mr Bickersd.y.k.e 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 Bickersd.y.k.e 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 Bickersd.y.k.e 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 Bickersd.y.k.e 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 Bickersd.y.k.e 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 Bickersd.y.k.e 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 rehea.r.s.ed 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.
Mr Bickersd.y.k.e"s introducer was an elderly Scotch peer, an excellent man for the purpose in every respect, except that he possessed a very strong accent.
The audience welcomed that accent uproariously. The electors of Kenningford who really had any definite opinions on politics were fairly equally divided. There were about as many earnest Liberals as there were earnest Unionists. But besides these there was a strong contingent who did not care which side won. These looked on elections as Heaven-sent opportunities for making a great deal of noise. They attended meetings in order to extract amus.e.m.e.nt from them; and they voted, if they voted at all, quite irresponsibly. A funny story at the expense of one candidate told on the morning of the polling, was quite likely to send these brave fellows off in dozens filling in their papers for the victim"s opponent.
There was a solid block of these gay spirits at the back of the hall.
They received the Scotch peer with huge delight. He reminded them of Harry Lauder and they said so. They addressed him affectionately as "Arry", throughout his speech, which was rather long. They implored him to be a pal and sing "The Saftest of the Family". Or, failing that, "I love a la.s.sie". Finding they could not induce him to do this, they did it themselves. They sang it several times. When the peer, having finished his remarks on the subject of Mr Bickersd.y.k.e, at length sat down, they cheered for seven minutes, and demanded an encore.
The meeting was in excellent spirits when Mr Bickersd.y.k.e rose to address it.
The effort of doing justice to the last speaker had left the free and independent electors at the back of the hall slightly limp. The bank-manager"s opening remarks were received without any demonstration.
Mr Bickersd.y.k.e spoke well. He had a penetrating, if harsh, voice, and he said what he had to say forcibly. Little by little the audience came under his spell. When, at the end of a well-turned sentence, he paused and took a sip of water, there was a round of applause, in which many of the admirers of Mr Harry Lauder joined.
He resumed his speech. The audience listened intently. Mr Bickersd.y.k.e, having said some nasty things about Free Trade and the Alien Immigrant, turned to the Needs of the Navy and the necessity of increasing the fleet at all costs.
"This is no time for half-measures," he said. "We must do our utmost.
We must burn our boats--"
"Excuse me," said a gentle voice.
Mr Bickersd.y.k.e broke off. In the centre of the hall a tall figure had risen. Mr Bickersd.y.k.e found himself looking at a gleaming eye-gla.s.s which the speaker had just polished and inserted in his eye.
The ordinary heckler Mr Bickersd.y.k.e would have taken in his stride. He had got his audience, and simply by continuing and ignoring the interruption, he could have won through in safety. But the sudden appearance of Psmith unnerved him. He remained silent.
"How," asked Psmith, "do you propose to strengthen the Navy by burning boats?"
The inanity of the question enraged even the pleasure-seekers at the back.
"Order! Order!" cried the earnest contingent.
"Sit down, fice!" roared the pleasure-seekers.
Psmith sat down with a patient smile.
Mr Bickersd.y.k.e resumed his speech. But the fire had gone out of it. He had lost his audience. A moment before, he had grasped them and played on their minds (or what pa.s.sed for minds down Kenningford way) as on a stringed instrument. Now he had lost his hold.
He spoke on rapidly, but he could not get into his stride. The trivial interruption had broken the spell. His words lacked grip. The dead silence in which the first part of his speech had been received, that silence which is a greater tribute to the speaker than any applause, had given place to a restless medley of little noises; here a cough; there a sc.r.a.ping of a boot along the floor, as its wearer moved uneasily in his seat; in another place a whispered conversation. The audience was bored.
Mr Bickersd.y.k.e left the Navy, and went on to more general topics. But he was not interesting. He quoted figures, saw a moment later that he had not quoted them accurately, and instead of carrying on boldly, went back and corrected himself.
"Gow up top!" said a voice at the back of the hall, and there was a general laugh.
Mr Bickersd.y.k.e galloped unsteadily on. He condemned the Government. He said they had betrayed their trust.
And then he told an anecdote.
"The Government, gentlemen," he said, "achieves nothing worth achieving, and every individual member of the Government takes all the credit for what is done to himself. Their methods remind me, gentlemen, of an amusing experience I had while fishing one summer in the Lake District."
In a volume ent.i.tled "Three Men in a Boat" there is a story of how the author and a friend go into a riverside inn and see a very large trout in a gla.s.s case. They make inquiries about it, have men a.s.sure them, one by one, that the trout was caught by themselves. In the end the trout turns out to be made of plaster of Paris.
Mr Bickersd.y.k.e told that story as an experience of his own while fishing one summer in the Lake District.
It went well. The meeting was amused. Mr Bickersd.y.k.e went on to draw a trenchant comparison between the lack of genuine merit in the trout and the lack of genuine merit in the achievements of His Majesty"s Government.
There was applause.
When it had ceased, Psmith rose to his feet again.
"Excuse me," he said.
11. Misunderstood
Mike had refused to accompany Psmith to the meeting that evening, saying that he got too many chances in the ordinary way of business of hearing Mr Bickersd.y.k.e speak, without going out of his way to make more. So Psmith had gone off to Kenningford alone, and Mike, feeling too lazy to sally out to any place of entertainment, had remained at the flat with a novel.
He was deep in this, when there was the sound of a key in the latch, and shortly afterwards Psmith entered the room. On Psmith"s brow there was a look of pensive care, and also a slight discoloration. When he removed his overcoat, Mike saw that his collar was burst and hanging loose and that he had no tie. On his erstwhile speckless and gleaming shirt front were number of finger-impressions, of a boldness and clearness of outline which would have made a Bertillon expert leap with joy.
"Hullo!" said Mike dropping his book.
Psmith nodded in silence, went to his bedroom, and returned with a looking-gla.s.s. Propping this up on a table, he proceeded to examine himself with the utmost care. He shuddered slightly as his eye fell on the finger-marks; and without a word he went into his bathroom again.
He emerged after an interval of ten minutes in sky-blue pyjamas, slippers, and an Old Etonian blazer. He lit a cigarette; and, sitting down, stared pensively into the fire.
"What the d.i.c.kens have you been playing at?" demanded Mike.