text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/35

14 spot. Jĕro deep, Jĕro-an, to deepen, to dig deep.

This dictionary has not been overburdened by inserting all derivative words formed with an which are in common use, but when an is found subjoined to a word, the meaning will easily be traced by referring to the crude or simple part of the word, as Hadé good will be found, and the composition Hadé-an will easily suggest itself, to make good, to repair.

Anak, a child; the offspring of any animal, the young, a seedling plant, an offset, a sapling; the interest on money, see Bibit. Anak is extensively used to designate not alone the young of any animal, but also a subordinate part of some larger implement or body, of which the following are examples.

Anak chau, young plantain sprouts used for transplanting.

Anak chělaka, a person habitually unlucky, a luckless wight.

Anak Jawa, a Javanese.

Anak kambing, a lamb, a kid.

Anak kěbo, Buffaloe calf.

Anak kotok, a chicken.

Anak kuda, a foal.

Anak kunci, a key

Anak létah, the uvula, at the back of the tongue.

Anak lochéng, the clap of a bell.

Anak Malayu, a malay.

Anak mas, a slave born in the master's house. Such slave children are often illegitimate, but an anak mas is not necessarily illegitimate, as the mother may be legally married either to a slave or a freeman, but the mother being a slave the child is also born in bondage. Mas in this instance is probably mas C. 55 flesh, a child of the flesh, and thus born unto the state of the mother.

Anak panah, an arrow.

Anak paré, the sterns of Paddy which tiller out form a parent stock.

Anak prahu, a sailor.

Anak roda, the spoke of a wheel.

Anak sapi, a calf, the young of the cow kind.

Anak téré, a step child.

Anak uching, a kitten.

Anak wolanda, a Dutchman, a person of European parentage.

Anakan, to bear a child, to bring forth young.

Anak-anakan, a puppet, a doll, an image.

Ananta, C. 26 from an not, and anta end; Endless, eternal, infinite; also an epithet or name of the king of the Nagalokaya the region of serpents or dragons. See Anta Boga. (Skr. Nâgaloka).


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/36

Rh Anawadak, a Pelican, called in Malay Undan-Pelicanus onocrotolos.

Anchak, a kind of temporary platter, generally about 8 inches square, made of split bambu wattled together, with a bit of plantain leaf upon it. Such anchaks are especially used when making offerings at Kramats or ancient Balais, or to the tigers in the forest, where they are always left, and not used a second time.

Anchak, Ficus Rumphiï, a variety of fig tree, found about Batavia where it is also called Kayu Bodi; it resembles the Bo-gaha of Ceylon, which is the sacred tree of Buddha, of which circumstance Kayu Bodi may be meant to convey the idea, and may then have been imported into Java with the Buddhist religion, of which it forms so prominent a feature in Ceylon. Bo C. 480 a tree, the ficus religiosa. Dhi C. 302 understanding, intellect, knowledge, thus the tree of knowledge, or knowledge derived from this particular tree. Vide voce Bodi. (14).

Anchěléh, sneaking off, trying to avoid work or trouble, working with indifference.

Anchik, to put up, to hang out, said of a person's abode. Sok anchik di imah batur, he mostly hangs out with the neighbours.

Anchol, a promontory, a headland, a projection into the Sea.

Andaya ning Rat, a celebrated chief of Majapahit and successful leader of the forces of his country. He is also known by the title of Ratu Pěngging. The king of Majapahit gave him his daughter in marriage, and afterwards, admitted him to a share in the government. Raffles vol 2 P. 121/3. Andaya C. 33, share, portion, part, Ning, of the—Rat, country. (Dâja Skr. portion an prefix. Fr.).

Andé, supposing that, a figure in argument.

Andé, a close companion, a confidential friend; much used in conjunction with Sobat, as Sobat andé, a determined friend.

Anděg, to slay in one's course, to stop suddenly while running.

Anděl, to believe, to place confidence in, to trust, to confide.

Anděr, an upright post which supports the ridge-pole of a house.

Andika, thou, you. as applied to a person on equality with ourself, the same as te Javanese handiko, to order, to give command. (Handiko in Javanese means also thou, you. Fr.).

Andis, a kind of swallow.

Andong, a species of very large bambu, also called awi gédé, the big Bambu, Bambusa maxima.

Andung, a variety of thin palm tree, used for spear handles.

Ang, unwilling, I won't, a child's expression.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/37

16 Ang'ar, bad, poor soil; soil in which whatever is planted thrives badly.

Ang'ar-Éng'ér, to be pleased, to be smirking and in a good humour.

Ang'él, having to wait a long time; having trouble to get through business; provoking and unnecessary detention, such as native Chiefs take care to give to those who have to do with them, thereby showing, as they fancy, their importance.

Angěn, anatomically, the liver; morally, the heart, disposition; the pith of a tree, the inner part of a bambu; the soft part which lines the tubes of bambu. Leutik ang'en, little hearted, wanting pluck, discouraged. Gedé ang'en, great hearted, having courage, in spirits, enterprising. Ang'en goréng, bad hearted, deceitful, malicious. Ang'en putih, white-hearted, sincere, candid.

Ang'ět, warm, a genial glow, agreeably warm as clothing &c.

Ang'ěun, stewed or boiled vegetables, immersed in their juice.

Anggal, light in water, buoyant, easily floating.

Anggang, apart, gaping, with an interstice between any two objects.

Anggara, Tuesday, an ancient denomination for this day, derived from Bhuddist times, see Dité.
 * Angaharuw-a, C. 13. the planet mars. (Angâra Skr. the planet Mars.)

Anggarhéman, the word with wichwhich [sic] some songs commence, particularly accompaniments to the angklung, but of which no one can give any intelligible meaning.

Anggěl, a pillow, a cushion.

Anggěus, Done, fineshedfinished [sic], used up, completed- an exclamation as, all's over! it's done! a preposition set before verbs and adjectives to show that an action has been completed, and in this case it is generally contracted into geus, as geus datang he has come; geus gedé, he has become great, geus béak, it is all gone, all used up.

Anggo, to reserve for one's own particular use; to have for one's own private use.

Anggo, a method of taking fish by making enclosures which allow the water to pass through but retaining the fish; much the same as Agombongan which see.

Anggon–anggon, apparel clothing.

Anggor, Persian-wine-Buah anggor, grapes.

Anggor, a bunch or string of Peuteui fruit.

Anggrék, a beautiful and fragrant epidendron or orchideous plant, often found on fruit trees.

Anggrit, Nauclea lanceolata, a hard, heavy and durable wood.

Anggur, rather, in preference. Angguran montong leumpang manan nindak ayeuna, I would rather not go at all, than start now.

Angin, the wind, a whisper of information as if brought bijby [sic] the wind. angin kalér, the north wind; angin puyuh, a whirlwind; Luhuran ang’in, above the wind, to windward; Handapan ang’in below the wind, to leeward. Kula meunang angin, I have got information, literally I have got wind of anything.


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/38

Rh Ang'ir, to wash and cleanse the head and hair with some lixivium.

Ang'it, to arrange or compile a book.

Angka, a figure, a cipher, a letter, shape, outline. Angka, C. 11 a mark, a spot, a badge, a vestige, a line, a stroke; ornament, decoration. (In Skr. also a cipher. Fr.).

Angkanan, to intend to do, to propose doing.

Angkat, to take away, to lift up, to raise, to remove from its place, to carry off, to proceed on a journey.

Angka Wijaya, the last king of Majapahit, when it was destroyed in anno Javae 1400 AD. 1478. The word means the ,, Badge of Victory.” He is also called Alit Wijaya or Brawijaya. Alit in Javanese means little.

Angkĕr, any thing that must be done quickly, expedition. Paréntah angker, an order that must be immediately attended to; a sharp order.

Angkĕuh, to have a mind, to intend, to have in view. Angkeuh na daik ka Batawi, I intend to go to Batavia, Di angkeuhan kénéh, I still intend to do it.

Angklung, a musical instrument made of bambus, cut off at the ends, like the pipes of an organ, and being strung together in a frame, are shook to elicit their tones.

Angkuh, proud, arrogant, impolite, rude.

Angkul, a wattled hurdle of split bambus, used in the construction of dams in the mountain rivers. The pole of such an angkul is called Ranchatan, and the split wattled bambu Tali pitik.

Angkul golér, an angkul which in constructing a dam in a river, lies flat on the bottom of the river, and on which the damn is constructed. It often prevents the whole dam from settling, and holds the Chagaks or stakes in their places.

Angkup, the slough cast by a fresh leaf bursting from its bud.

Angkus, to refrain, to hold in passion or desire.

Ang'on, to watch or take care of buffaloes, or other cattle, whilst at pasture, whilst grazing. This is the usual occupation of children and young lads, who are hence called Budak ang'on, and to whom the buffaloes become much attached.

Angot, exceedingly, violently, in an excessive degree.

Angsana, name of a tree, Pterocarpus Indica. It grows up to be a large tree. Its leaves are pennate, and fall off about once in eight months. The tree frequently becoming quite bare for a few days before the new ones make their appearance. The tree bears handsome bunches of yellow flowers, terminal on the branches. The seeds have thin butterfly-wing appendages, and hence the Botanical name Pterocarpus, wing-fruit. The word is evidently Sanscrit, though the nearest approach to it in Clough is only Asanâ C. 66. a seat; also a tree, ficus religiosa, possibly from such tree being holy, and under its shade the seat of holy men. In the Sunda districts it will frequently be found planted in old grave yards or Kramats. The tree grows plentifully throughout the Archipelago, and is said to yield the large slab tables of


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/39

18 the Moluccos, where it is called Kayu Lengoa Mr. Friederich informs me that in Sancrit Asana has also the meaning of „sitting in some peculiar position, as is the custom of devotees” May the word asana, as the etymon of our Angsana tree have had its origin in this tree being often selected for the place where former devotees chose to sit and meditate, and from this holy character of the tree, it was planted about the graves of the deceased? (15)..

Angsěrot, a syrringesyringe [sic], a squirt-usually made of a bit of bambu and used for squirting Tuba or intoxicating water at fish in holes.

Angsěuk, to push forward to, to attack, to force forward.

Angsur, to push forward, to shove together, to push along the ground Suluh na angsurken deui, push the fire wood together again, when mending a fire of logs lying on the ground.

Anjěrogkěn, to come to a crisis, to come to the denoument of story.

Anjian, to copulate, said only of brutes.

Anjing, a dog, canis- a term of reproach; the big-headed ants, which bite so hard, and appear to be the guardians in a hillock of white ants.

Anjing awéwé, a female dog, a bitch.

Anjingan, to hunt or bait with dogs.

Anjog, Prematurely, too early, untimely.

Anjukan, haughty, overbearing, always having one's own way. Jélema anjukan, a bully, an unruly person.

Anjur, a kind of shovel shaped instrument made by fixing the upih of a Pinang tree, or a bit of broad bark of any kind, between a forked stick for the purpose of throwing up water from a hole; for baling out water.

Anom, properly Javanese- young, youthful.

Anta, brackish, having a taste of sea water.

Anta Boga, The presiding deity over the lowest region of the universe; he was in shape like a dragon. He caught in his mouth the Chupu with its Retna Dumila as it fell from the hands of the superior deities and swallowed it. The Retna Dumila subsequently became the Dayang Trusnawati, who presides over Paddy cultivation. Anta Boga afterwards delivered up the Retna Dumila to Sengyang Guru. The name Anta


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/40

Rh Boga occurs in Sunda Jampe's for paddy planting, associated with Trusnawati, which see. Anta, C. 32, a boundary, a limit; final, ultimate and sometimes death. Bhoga, C. 500, a snakes body, the extended hood of a snake; food, eating, wealth, riches. The Dragon of death. See Ananta. If Anta here is an abbreviation of ananta, then it will mean the „Eternal Dragon” the „undying dragon.”

Antanan, a very common creeping herb, with circular, scalloped leaves, and seeds growing on the roots. It has a bitter taste but is much eaten by the natives. Hydrocotyle asiatica.

Antara, between, even until, even unto, until, among. Interval- Antara C. 33, within, between, amongst. Antara bukti even until obtaining. Antara gunung jeung laut, between the mountains and the sea.

Antěl, driven hard up, pressing against, so as not to be able to go any further.

Antělas, ar: Satin.

Antěn, there is, there are, to exist, to be in any particular spot- Anten siji, there is one Tanten for To anten, there are none.

Antěp, in an excessive degree. Antep ing hadé, the very best- Di antep to carry to far, to be too severe, to overdo.

Antěp-antěpan, too severely, going beyond reasonable bounds.

Antěr, to conduct, to attend, to follow as a companion, or in suit; to carry, to convey. Aing kudu di anteur ka imah, I must be conducted (or attended) home. Di anterken deui ka nu bogah, it was carried back to its owner.

Antér, Slow, intentionally drawling; causing unnecessary delay.

Anti, to wait, to delay, to tarry; to long for. Di anti-anti, to wait for, to hang on in attendance.

Anting, a variety of ear- ring, with a piece of gold, silver or other metal curving in a circle under the ear. See Karabu.

Anting, backwards and forwards, back again the same day- as Pulang anting, to go and return time same day. See Untang anting.

Anu, an undefined expression, often of forgetfulness or doubt, as we might say, „thingumee” such a one, so and so, such a thing. Si anu, Mr. Somebody- Mr. Thingumee. Di béré anu, he gave me so and so- See Étaun.

Anut, to submit, submitting to, obedient, submissive.

Anyam, to plait or braid; to work baskets or matting- to intertwine.

Anyar, new, fresh, recent, Imah anyar a new house; Jamang anyar, a new jacket.

Anyar, The name of a place in the Straits of Sunda, called by the English Anjir, after the Dutch spelling, and where ships from Europe frequently call for refreshments.

Anyaran, to renew, to make afresh.

Apa-bila, when, at what time, whenever, as soon as. Apa-bila is also Malay, from which it has most likely been taken, as betrayed by the word Apa, which, what. Marsden P. 61 gives Bila as Hindu and meaning, time, point of time. Wela and wélâ C. 672 half a day, any portion of a day- time.


text:
Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/41

20 Apal, versed in, skilled in, well acquinted with any matter.

Apěm, a kind of confectionary or paste made with rice flour. Appa C. 63. a kind of cake or muffin made of rice flour.

Apěs, delicate, easily laid up with illness; pretending to be disgusted; nice, in the sense of not liking rough work; Babari apes, téré mepes, easily disgusted, yon will soon be at a loss- that is, you must not shrink from disagreeable work if you mean to succeed.

Api-api, to feign, to sham, to counterfeit; dissembling.

Api-api name of a tree with hard stem, growing in mud on sea-shore. It makes good fire wood. Aegiceras majus.

Apik, careful, attentive at any work; guarded in conduct; neat, smart.

Apiokkěn, to put together, join or unite together for any definite purpose.

Apis, as Apis buntut, the crupper of a saddle.

Apiun, ar: Opium- See Madat- the inspissated juice of the poppy.

Apok, in conjunction, along with, met, put together.

Aprok, to meet, to find, to be in conjunction with, to meet while out and abroad

Apu, lime, either burnt from shells, coral or limestone.

Apu-apuan, Calotropis gigantea, a plant otherwise called Badori which see. The leaves are largish with a whitish pila on them, which look as if lime had been dredged on them, hence the name which alludes to this peculiarity.

Apun, a rank of birth below mas, and above Uyang.

Apung, to fly, to dart, or to fling up into the air; to jump up; to toss up the head- Manuk apung, the lark,

Apus, the crupper of a saddle; a rope; a string.

Apus, a variety of Bambu. Bambusa apus.

Apus or Sa apus, is a quantity of three hoyas of Plantain fruit.

Arab, ar: an Arab, Arabian, Arabia. Nagara arab, the country of Arabia. Orang Arab an Arab Person.

Arad, a drag-net to catch fish with. Di arad, to drag a net for fish.

Arafat, ar: a hill to the Eastward of Mecca, to which the pilgrims resort, and which ceremony forms part of the process of becoming a Haji. The visit to the hill of Arafat is made on the 9th of time month of Haji, and terminates on the 12th. Arafat is some 15 or 16 miles to the Eastward of Mecca.

Arah, to wish for, to covet, to desire, to have in mind to get. To di arah deui, it is no longer desired, no further use will be made of it.

Arak, an ardent spirit made from rice, palm wine and molasses, Arrack-Arakku, C. 45. Arrack, a spirituous liquor.

Arak, a kind of hardwood; vitex leucoxylon; the same as Laban.

Arak, to carry in triumphal procession, especially as the bride at a marriage, or children just before they are to be circumcised.


text: Talk:My Man Jeeves/Helping Freddie

title: Talk:My Man Jeeves/Helping Freddie


text:
Psmith in the City/Chapter 1

Considering what a prominent figure Mr John Bickersdyke was to be in Mike Jackson's life, it was only appropriate that he should make a dramatic entry into it. This he did by walking behind the bowler's arm when Mike had scored ninety-eight, causing him thereby to be clean bowled by a long-hop.

It was the last day of the Ilsworth cricket week, and the house team were struggling hard on a damaged wicket. During the first two matches of the week all had been well. Warm sunshine, true wickets, tea in the shade of the trees. But on the Thursday night, as the team champed their dinner contentedly after defeating the Incogniti by two wickets, a pattering of rain made itself heard upon the windows. By bedtime it had settled to a steady downpour. On Friday morning, when the team of the local regiment arrived in their brake, the sun was shining once more in a watery, melancholy way, but play was not possible before lunch. After lunch the bowlers were in their element. The regiment, winning the toss, put together a hundred and thirty, due principally to a last wicket stand between two enormous corporals, who swiped at everything and had luck enough for two whole teams. The house team followed with seventy-eight, of which Psmith, by his usual golf methods, claimed thirty. Mike, who had gone in first as the star bat of the side, had been run out with great promptitude off the first ball of the innings, which his partner had hit in the immediate neighbourhood of point. At close of play the regiment had made five without loss. This, on the Saturday morning, helped by another shower of rain which made the wicket easier for the moment, they had increased to a hundred and forty-eight, leaving the house just two hundred to make on a pitch which looked as if it were made of linseed.

It was during this week that Mike had first made the acquaintance of Psmith's family. Mr Smith had moved from Shropshire, and taken Ilsworth Hall in a neighbouring county. This he had done, as far as could be ascertained, simply because he had a poor opinion of Shropshire cricket. And just at the moment cricket happened to be the pivot of his life.

'My father,' Psmith had confided to Mike, meeting him at the station in the family motor on the Monday, 'is a man of vast but volatile brain. He has not that calm, dispassionate outlook on life which marks your true philosopher, such as myself. I—'

'I say,' interrupted Mike, eyeing Psmith's movements with apprehension, 'you aren't going to drive, are you?'

'Who else? As I was saying, I am like some contented spectator of a Pageant. My pater wants to jump in and stage-manage. He is a man of hobbies. He never has more than one at a time, and he never has that long. But while he has it, it's all there. When I left the house this morning he was all for cricket. But by the time we get to the ground he may have chucked cricket and taken up the Territorial Army. Don't be surprised if you find the wicket being dug up into trenches, when we arrive, and the pro. moving in echelon towards the pavilion. No,' he added, as the car turned into the drive, and they caught a glimpse of white flannels and blazers in the distance, and heard the sound of bat meeting ball, 'cricket seems still to be topping the bill. Come along, and I'll show you your room. It's next to mine, so that, if brooding on Life in the still hours of the night, I hit on any great truth, I shall pop in and discuss it with you.'

While Mike was changing, Psmith sat on his bed, and continued to discourse.

'I suppose you're going to the 'Varsity?' he said.

'Rather,' said Mike, lacing his boots. 'You are, of course? Cambridge, I hope. I'm going to King's.'

'Between ourselves,' confided Psmith, 'I'm dashed if I know what's going to happen to me. I am the thingummy of what's-its-name.'

'You look it,' said Mike, brushing his hair.

'Don't stand there cracking the glass,' said Psmith. 'I tell you I am practically a human three-shies-a-penny ball. My father is poising me lightly in his hand, preparatory to flinging me at one of the milky cocos of Life. Which one he'll aim at I don't know. The least thing fills him with a whirl of new views as to my future. Last week we were out shooting together, and he said that the life of the gentleman-farmer was the most manly and independent on earth, and that he had a good mind to start me on that. I pointed out that lack of early training had rendered me unable to distinguish between a threshing-machine and a mangel-wurzel, so he chucked that. He has now worked round to Commerce. It seems that a blighter of the name of Bickersdyke is coming here for the week-end next Saturday. As far as I can say without searching the Newgate Calendar, the man Bickersdyke's career seems to have been as follows. He was at school with my pater, went into the City, raked in a certain amount of doubloons—probably dishonestly—and is now a sort of Captain of Industry, manager of some bank or other, and about to stand for Parliament. The result of these excesses is that my pater's imagination has been fired, and at time of going to press he wants me to imitate Comrade Bickersdyke. However, there's plenty of time. That's one comfort. He's certain to change his mind again. Ready? Then suppose we filter forth into the arena?'

Out on the field Mike was introduced to the man of hobbies. Mr Smith, senior, was a long, earnest-looking man who might have been Psmith in a grey wig but for his obvious energy. He was as wholly on the move as Psmith was wholly statuesque. Where Psmith stood like some dignified piece of sculpture, musing on deep questions with a glassy eye, his father would be trying to be in four places at once. When Psmith presented Mike to him, he shook hands warmly with him and started a sentence, but broke off in the middle of both performances to dash wildly in the direction of the pavilion in an endeavour to catch an impossible catch some thirty yards away. The impetus so gained carried him on towards Bagley, the Ilsworth Hall ground-man, with whom a moment later he was carrying on an animated discussion as to whether he had or had not seen a dandelion on the field that morning. Two minutes afterwards he had skimmed away again. Mike, as he watched him, began to appreciate Psmith's reasons for feeling some doubt as to what would be his future walk in life.

At lunch that day Mike sat next to Mr Smith, and improved his acquaintance with him; and by the end of the week they were on excellent terms. Psmith's father had Psmith's gift of getting on well with people.

On this Saturday, as Mike buckled on his pads, Mr Smith bounded up, full of advice and encouragement.

'My boy,' he said, 'we rely on you. These others'—he indicated with a disparaging wave of the hand the rest of the team, who were visible through the window of the changing-room—'are all very well. Decent club bats. Good for a few on a billiard-table. But you're our hope on a wicket like this. I have studied cricket all my life'—till that summer it is improbable that Mr Smith had ever handled a bat—'and I know a first-class batsman when I see one. I've seen your brothers play. Pooh, you're better than any of them. That century of yours against the Green Jackets was a wonderful innings, wonderful. Now look here, my boy. I want you to be careful. We've a lot of runs to make, so we mustn't take any risks. Hit plenty of boundaries, of course, but be careful. Careful. Dash it, there's a youngster trying to climb up the elm. He'll break his neck. It's young Giles, my keeper's boy. Hi! Hi, there!'

He scudded out to avert the tragedy, leaving Mike to digest his expert advice on the art of batting on bad wickets.

Possibly it was the excellence of this advice which induced Mike to play what was, to date, the best innings of his life. There are moments when the batsman feels an almost super-human fitness. This came to Mike now. The sun had begun to shine strongly. It made the wicket more difficult, but it added a cheerful touch to the scene. Mike felt calm and masterful. The bowling had no terrors for him. He scored nine off his first over and seven off his second, half-way through which he lost his partner. He was to undergo a similar bereavement several times that afternoon, and at frequent intervals. However simple the bowling might seem to him, it had enough sting in it to worry the rest of the team considerably. Batsmen came and went at the other end with such rapidity that it seemed hardly worth while their troubling to come in at all. Every now and then one would give promise of better things by lifting the slow bowler into the pavilion or over the boundary, but it always happened that a similar stroke, a few balls later, ended in an easy catch. At five o'clock the Ilsworth score was eighty-one for seven wickets, last man nought, Mike not out fifty-nine. As most of the house team, including Mike, were dispersing to their homes or were due for visits at other houses that night, stumps were to be drawn at six. It was obvious that they could not hope to win. Number nine on the list, who was Bagley, the ground-man, went in with instructions to play for a draw, and minute advice from Mr Smith as to how he was to do it. Mike had now begun to score rapidly, and it was not to be expected that he could change his game; but Bagley, a dried-up little man of the type which bowls for five hours on a hot August day without exhibiting any symptoms of fatigue, put a much-bound bat stolidly in front of every ball he received; and the Hall's prospects of saving the game grew brighter.

At a quarter to six the professional left, caught at very silly point for eight. The score was a hundred and fifteen, of which Mike had made eighty-five.

A lengthy young man with yellow hair, who had done some good fast bowling for the Hall during the week, was the next man in. In previous matches he had hit furiously at everything, and against the Green Jackets had knocked up forty in twenty minutes while Mike was putting the finishing touches to his century. Now, however, with his host's warning ringing in his ears, he adopted the unspectacular, or Bagley, style of play. His manner of dealing with the ball was that of one playing croquet. He patted it gingerly back to the bowler when it was straight, and left it icily alone when it was off the wicket. Mike, still in the brilliant vein, clumped a half-volley past point to the boundary, and with highly scientific late cuts and glides brought his score to ninety-eight. With Mike's score at this, the total at a hundred and thirty, and the hands of the clock at five minutes to six, the yellow-haired croquet exponent fell, as Bagley had fallen, a victim to silly point, the ball being the last of the over.

Mr Smith, who always went in last for his side, and who so far had not received a single ball during the week, was down the pavilion steps and half-way to the wicket before the retiring batsman had taken half a dozen steps.

'Last over,' said the wicket-keeper to Mike. 'Any idea how many you've got? You must be near your century, I should think.'

'Ninety-eight,' said Mike. He always counted his runs.

'By Jove, as near as that? This is something like a finish.'

Mike left the first ball alone, and the second. They were too wide of the off-stump to be hit at safely. Then he felt a thrill as the third ball left the bowler's hand. It was a long-hop. He faced square to pull it.

And at that moment Mr John Bickersdyke walked into his life across the bowling-screen.

He crossed the bowler's arm just before the ball pitched. Mike lost sight of it for a fraction of a second, and hit wildly. The next moment his leg stump was askew; and the Hall had lost the match.

'I'm sorry,' he said to Mr Smith. 'Some silly idiot walked across the screen just as the ball was bowled.'

'What!' shouted Mr Smith. 'Who was the fool who walked behind the bowler's arm?' he yelled appealingly to Space.

'Here he comes, whoever he is,' said Mike.

A short, stout man in a straw hat and a flannel suit was walking towards them. As he came nearer Mike saw that he had a hard, thin-lipped mouth, half-hidden by a rather ragged moustache, and that behind a pair of gold spectacles were two pale and slightly protruding eyes, which, like his mouth, looked hard.

'How are you, Smith,' he said.

'Hullo, Bickersdyke.' There was a slight internal struggle, and then Mr Smith ceased to be the cricketer and became the host. He chatted amiably to the new-comer.

'You lost the game, I suppose,' said Mr Bickersdyke.

The cricketer in Mr Smith came to the top again, blended now, however, with the host. He was annoyed, but restrained in his annoyance.

'I say, Bickersdyke, you know, my dear fellow,' he said complainingly, 'you shouldn't have walked across the screen. You put Jackson off, and made him get bowled.'

'The screen?'

'That curious white object,' said Mike. 'It is not put up merely as an ornament. There's a sort of rough idea of giving the batsman a chance of seeing the ball, as well. It's a great help to him when people come charging across it just as the bowler bowls.'

Mr Bickersdyke turned a slightly deeper shade of purple, and was about to reply, when what sporting reporters call 'the veritable ovation' began.

Quite a large crowd had been watching the game, and they expressed their approval of Mike's performance.

There is only one thing for a batsman to do on these occasions. Mike ran into the pavilion, leaving Mr Bickersdyke standing.

title: Psmith in the City/Chapter 1


text:
Psmith in the City/Chapter 2

It seemed to Mike, when he got home, that there was a touch of gloom in the air. His sisters were as glad to see him as ever. There was a good deal of rejoicing going on among the female Jacksons because Joe had scored his first double century in first-class cricket. Double centuries are too common, nowadays, for the papers to take much notice of them; but, still, it is not everybody who can make them, and the occasion was one to be marked. Mike had read the news in the evening paper in the train, and had sent his brother a wire from the station, congratulating him. He had wondered whether he himself would ever achieve the feat in first-class cricket. He did not see why he should not. He looked forward through a long vista of years of county cricket. He had a birth qualification for the county in which Mr Smith had settled, and he had played for it once already at the beginning of the holidays. His debut had not been sensational, but it had been promising. The fact that two members of the team had made centuries, and a third seventy odd, had rather eclipsed his own twenty-nine not out; but it had been a faultless innings, and nearly all the papers had said that here was yet another Jackson, evidently well up to the family standard, who was bound to do big things in the future.

The touch of gloom was contributed by his brother Bob to a certain extent, and by his father more noticeably. Bob looked slightly thoughtful. Mr Jackson seemed thoroughly worried.

Mike approached Bob on the subject in the billiard-room after dinner. Bob was practising cannons in rather a listless way.

'What's up, Bob?' asked Mike.

Bob laid down his cue.

'I'm hanged if I know,' said Bob. 'Something seems to be. Father's worried about something.'

'He looked as if he'd got the hump rather at dinner.'

'I only got here this afternoon, about three hours before you did. I had a bit of a talk with him before dinner. I can't make out what's up. He seemed awfully keen on my finding something to do now I've come down from Oxford. Wanted to know whether I couldn't get a tutoring job or a mastership at some school next term. I said I'd have a shot. I don't see what all the hurry's about, though. I was hoping he'd give me a bit of travelling on the Continent somewhere before I started in.'

'Rough luck,' said Mike. 'I wonder why it is. Jolly good about Joe, wasn't it? Let's have fifty up, shall we?'

Bob's remarks had given Mike no hint of impending disaster. It seemed strange, of course, that his father, who had always been so easy-going, should have developed a hustling Get On or Get Out spirit, and be urging Bob to Do It Now; but it never occurred to him that there could be any serious reason for it. After all, fellows had to start working some time or other. Probably his father had merely pointed this out to Bob, and Bob had made too much of it.

Half-way through the game Mr Jackson entered the room, and stood watching in silence.

'Want a game, father?' asked Mike.

'No, thanks, Mike. What is it? A hundred up?'

'Fifty.'

'Oh, then you'll be finished in a moment. When you are, I wish you'd just look into the study for a moment, Mike. I want to have a talk with you.'

'Rum,' said Mike, as the door closed. 'I wonder what's up?'

For a wonder his conscience was free. It was not as if a bad school-report might have arrived in his absence. His Sedleigh report had come at the beginning of the holidays, and had been, on the whole, fairly decent—nothing startling either way. Mr Downing, perhaps through remorse at having harried Mike to such an extent during the Sammy episode, had exercised a studied moderation in his remarks. He had let Mike down far more easily than he really deserved. So it could not be a report that was worrying Mr Jackson. And there was nothing else on his conscience.

Bob made a break of sixteen, and ran out. Mike replaced his cue, and walked to the study.

His father was sitting at the table. Except for the very important fact that this time he felt that he could plead Not Guilty on every possible charge, Mike was struck by the resemblance in the general arrangement of the scene to that painful ten minutes at the end of the previous holidays, when his father had announced his intention of taking him away from Wrykyn and sending him to Sedleigh. The resemblance was increased by the fact that, as Mike entered, Mr Jackson was kicking at the waste-paper basket—a thing which with him was an infallible sign of mental unrest.

'Sit down, Mike,' said Mr Jackson. 'How did you get on during the week?'

'Topping. Only once out under double figures. And then I was run out. Got a century against the Green Jackets, seventy-one against the Incogs, and today I made ninety-eight on a beast of a wicket, and only got out because some silly goat of a chap—'

He broke off. Mr Jackson did not seem to be attending. There was a silence. Then Mr Jackson spoke with an obvious effort.

'Look here, Mike, we've always understood one another, haven't we?'

'Of course we have.'

'You know I wouldn't do anything to prevent you having a good time, if I could help it. I took you away from Wrykyn, I know, but that was a special case. It was necessary. But I understand perfectly how keen you are to go to Cambridge, and I wouldn't stand in the way for a minute, if I could help it.'

Mike looked at him blankly. This could only mean one thing. He was not to go to the 'Varsity. But why? What had happened? When he had left for the Smith's cricket week, his name had been down for King's, and the whole thing settled. What could have happened since then?

'But I can't help it,' continued Mr Jackson.

'Aren't I going up to Cambridge, father?' stammered Mike.

'I'm afraid not, Mike. I'd manage it if I possibly could. I'm just as anxious to see you get your Blue as you are to get it. But it's kinder to be quite frank. I can't afford to send you to Cambridge. I won't go into details which you would not understand; but I've lost a very large sum of money since I saw you last. So large that we shall have to economize in every way. I shall let this house and take a much smaller one. And you and Bob, I'm afraid, will have to start earning your living. I know it's a terrible disappointment to you, old chap.'

'Oh, that's all right,' said Mike thickly. There seemed to be something sticking in his throat, preventing him from speaking.

'If there was any possible way—'

'No, it's all right, father, really. I don't mind a bit. It's awfully rough luck on you losing all that.'

There was another silence. The clock ticked away energetically on the mantelpiece, as if glad to make itself heard at last. Outside, a plaintive snuffle made itself heard. John, the bull-dog, Mike's inseparable companion, who had followed him to the study, was getting tired of waiting on the mat. Mike got up and opened the door. John lumbered in.

The movement broke the tension.

'Thanks, Mike,' said Mr Jackson, as Mike started to leave the room, 'you're a sportsman.'

title: Psmith in the City/Chapter 2


text:
Psmith in the City/Chapter 3

Details of what were in store for him were given to Mike next morning. During his absence at Ilsworth a vacancy had been got for him in that flourishing institution, the New Asiatic Bank; and he was to enter upon his duties, whatever they might be, on the Tuesday of the following week. It was short notice, but banks have a habit of swallowing their victims rather abruptly. Mike remembered the case of Wyatt, who had had just about the same amount of time in which to get used to the prospect of Commerce.

On the Monday morning a letter arrived from Psmith. Psmith was still perturbed. 'Commerce,' he wrote, 'continues to boom. My pater referred to Comrade Bickersdyke last night as a Merchant Prince. Comrade B. and I do not get on well together. Purely for his own good, I drew him aside yesterday and explained to him at great length the frightfulness of walking across the bowling-screen. He seemed restive, but I was firm. We parted rather with the Distant Stare than the Friendly Smile. But I shall persevere. In many ways the casual observer would say that he was hopeless. He is a poor performer at Bridge, as I was compelled to hint to him on Saturday night. His eyes have no animated sparkle of intelligence. And the cut of his clothes jars my sensitive soul to its foundations. I don't wish to speak ill of a man behind his back, but I must confide in you, as my Boyhood's Friend, that he wore a made-up tie at dinner. But no more of a painful subject. I am working away at him with a brave smile. Sometimes I think that I am succeeding. Then he seems to slip back again. However,' concluded the letter, ending on an optimistic note, 'I think that I shall make a man of him yet—some day.'

Mike re-read this letter in the train that took him to London. By this time Psmith would know that his was not the only case in which Commerce was booming. Mike had written to him by return, telling him of the disaster which had befallen the house of Jackson. Mike wished he could have told him in person, for Psmith had a way of treating unpleasant situations as if he were merely playing at them for his own amusement. Psmith's attitude towards the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune was to regard them with a bland smile, as if they were part of an entertainment got up for his express benefit.

Arriving at Paddington, Mike stood on the platform, waiting for his box to emerge from the luggage-van, with mixed feelings of gloom and excitement. The gloom was in the larger quantities, perhaps, but the excitement was there, too. It was the first time in his life that he had been entirely dependent on himself. He had crossed the Rubicon. The occasion was too serious for him to feel the same helplessly furious feeling with which he had embarked on life at Sedleigh. It was possible to look on Sedleigh with quite a personal enmity. London was too big to be angry with. It took no notice of him. It did not care whether he was glad to be there or sorry, and there was no means of making it care. That is the peculiarity of London. There is a sort of cold unfriendliness about it. A city like New York makes the new arrival feel at home in half an hour; but London is a specialist in what Psmith in his letter had called the Distant Stare. You have to buy London's good-will.

Mike drove across the Park to Victoria, feeling very empty and small. He had settled on Dulwich as the spot to get lodgings, partly because, knowing nothing about London, he was under the impression that rooms anywhere inside the four-mile radius were very expensive, but principally because there was a school at Dulwich, and it would be a comfort being near a school. He might get a game of fives there sometimes, he thought, on a Saturday afternoon, and, in the summer, occasional cricket.

Wandering at a venture up the asphalt passage which leads from Dulwich station in the direction of the College, he came out into Acacia Road. There is something about Acacia Road which inevitably suggests furnished apartments. A child could tell at a glance that it was bristling with bed-sitting rooms.

Mike knocked at the first door over which a card hung.

There is probably no more depressing experience in the world than the process of engaging furnished apartments. Those who let furnished apartments seem to take no joy in the act. Like Pooh-Bah, they do it, but it revolts them.

In answer to Mike's knock, a female person opened the door. In appearance she resembled a pantomime 'dame', inclining towards the restrained melancholy of Mr Wilkie Bard rather than the joyous abandon of Mr George Robey. Her voice she had modelled on the gramophone. Her most recent occupation seemed to have been something with a good deal of yellow soap in it. As a matter of fact—there are no secrets between our readers and ourselves—she had been washing a shirt. A useful occupation, and an honourable, but one that tends to produce a certain homeliness in the appearance.

She wiped a pair of steaming hands on her apron, and regarded Mike with an eye which would have been markedly expressionless in a boiled fish.

'Was there anything?' she asked.

Mike felt that he was in for it now. He had not sufficient ease of manner to back gracefully away and disappear, so he said that there was something. In point of fact, he wanted a bed-sitting room.

'Orkup stays,' said the pantomime dame. Which Mike interpreted to mean, would he walk upstairs?

The procession moved up a dark flight of stairs until it came to a door. The pantomime dame opened this, and shuffled through. Mike stood in the doorway, and looked in.

It was a repulsive room. One of those characterless rooms which are only found in furnished apartments. To Mike, used to the comforts of his bedroom at home and the cheerful simplicity of a school dormitory, it seemed about the most dismal spot he had ever struck. A sort of Sargasso Sea among bedrooms.

He looked round in silence. Then he said: 'Yes.' There did not seem much else to say.

'It's a nice room,' said the pantomime dame. Which was a black lie. It was not a nice room. It never had been a nice room. And it did not seem at all probable that it ever would be a nice room. But it looked cheap. That was the great thing. Nobody could have the assurance to charge much for a room like that. A landlady with a conscience might even have gone to the length of paying people some small sum by way of compensation to them for sleeping in it.

'About what?' queried Mike. Cheapness was the great consideration. He understood that his salary at the bank would be about four pounds ten a month, to begin with, and his father was allowing him five pounds a month. One does not do things en prince on a hundred and fourteen pounds a year.

The pantomime dame became slightly more animated. Prefacing her remarks by a repetition of her statement that it was a nice room, she went on to say that she could 'do' it at seven and sixpence per week 'for him'—giving him to understand, presumably, that, if the Shah of Persia or Mr Carnegie ever applied for a night's rest, they would sigh in vain for such easy terms. And that included lights. Coals were to be looked on as an extra. 'Sixpence a scuttle.' Attendance was thrown in.

Having stated these terms, she dribbled a piece of fluff under the bed, after the manner of a professional Association footballer, and relapsed into her former moody silence.

Mike said he thought that would be all right. The pantomime dame exhibited no pleasure.

''Bout meals?' she said. 'You'll be wanting breakfast. Bacon, aigs, an' that, I suppose?'

Mike said he supposed so.

'That'll be extra,' she said. 'And dinner? A chop, or a nice steak?'

Mike bowed before this original flight of fancy. A chop or a nice steak seemed to be about what he might want.

'That'll be extra,' said the pantomime dame in her best Wilkie Bard manner.

Mike said yes, he supposed so. After which, having put down seven and sixpence, one week's rent in advance, he was presented with a grubby receipt and an enormous latchkey, and the seance was at an end. Mike wandered out of the house. A few steps took him to the railings that bounded the College grounds. It was late August, and the evenings had begun to close in. The cricket-field looked very cool and spacious in the dim light, with the school buildings looming vague and shadowy through the slight mist. The little gate by the railway bridge was not locked. He went in, and walked slowly across the turf towards the big clump of trees which marked the division between the cricket and football fields. It was all very pleasant and soothing after the pantomime dame and her stuffy bed-sitting room. He sat down on a bench beside the second eleven telegraph-board, and looked across the ground at the pavilion. For the first time that day he began to feel really home-sick. Up till now the excitement of a strange venture had borne him up; but the cricket-field and the pavilion reminded him so sharply of Wrykyn. They brought home to him with a cutting distinctness, the absolute finality of his break with the old order of things. Summers would come and go, matches would be played on this ground with all the glory of big scores and keen finishes; but he was done. 'He was a jolly good bat at school. Top of the Wrykyn averages two years. But didn't do anything after he left. Went into the city or something.' That was what they would say of him, if they didn't quite forget him.

The clock on the tower over the senior block chimed quarter after quarter, but Mike sat on, thinking. It was quite late when he got up, and began to walk back to Acacia Road. He felt cold and stiff and very miserable.

title: Psmith in the City/Chapter 3


text:
Psmith in the City/Chapter 4

The City received Mike with the same aloofness with which the more western portion of London had welcomed him on the previous day. Nobody seemed to look at him. He was permitted to alight at St Paul's and make his way up Queen Victoria Street without any demonstration. He followed the human stream till he reached the Mansion House, and eventually found himself at the massive building of the New Asiatic Bank, Limited.

The difficulty now was to know how to make an effective entrance. There was the bank, and here was he. How had he better set about breaking it to the authorities that he had positively arrived and was ready to start earning his four pound ten per mensem? Inside, the bank seemed to be in a state of some confusion. Men were moving about in an apparently irresolute manner. Nobody seemed actually to be working. As a matter of fact, the business of a bank does not start very early in the morning. Mike had arrived before things had really begun to move. As he stood near the doorway, one or two panting figures rushed up the steps, and flung themselves at a large book which stood on the counter near the door. Mike was to come to know this book well. In it, if you were an employe of the New Asiatic Bank, you had to inscribe your name every morning. It was removed at ten sharp to the accountant's room, and if you reached the bank a certain number of times in the year too late to sign, bang went your bonus.

After a while things began to settle down. The stir and confusion gradually ceased. All down the length of the bank, figures could be seen, seated on stools and writing hieroglyphics in large letters. A benevolent-looking man, with spectacles and a straggling grey beard, crossed the gangway close to where Mike was standing. Mike put the thing to him, as man to man.

'Could you tell me,' he said, 'what I'm supposed to do? I've just joined the bank.' The benevolent man stopped, and looked at him with a pair of mild blue eyes. 'I think, perhaps, that your best plan would be to see the manager,' he said. 'Yes, I should certainly do that. He will tell you what work you have to do. If you will permit me, I will show you the way.'

'It's awfully good of you,' said Mike. He felt very grateful. After his experience of London, it was a pleasant change to find someone who really seemed to care what happened to him. His heart warmed to the benevolent man.

'It feels strange to you, perhaps, at first, Mr—'

'Jackson.'

'Mr Jackson. My name is Waller. I have been in the City some time, but I can still recall my first day. But one shakes down. One shakes down quite quickly. Here is the manager's room. If you go in, he will tell you what to do.'

'Thanks awfully,' said Mike.

'Not at all.' He ambled off on the quest which Mike had interrupted, turning, as he went, to bestow a mild smile of encouragement on the new arrival. There was something about Mr Waller which reminded Mike pleasantly of the White Knight in 'Alice through the Looking-glass.'

Mike knocked at the managerial door, and went in.

Two men were sitting at the table. The one facing the door was writing when Mike went in. He continued to write all the time he was in the room. Conversation between other people in his presence had apparently no interest for him, nor was it able to disturb him in any way.

The other man was talking into a telephone. Mike waited till he had finished. Then he coughed. The man turned round. Mike had thought, as he looked at his back and heard his voice, that something about his appearance or his way of speaking was familiar. He was right. The man in the chair was Mr Bickersdyke, the cross-screen pedestrian.

These reunions are very awkward. Mike was frankly unequal to the situation. Psmith, in his place, would have opened the conversation, and relaxed the tension with some remark on the weather or the state of the crops. Mike merely stood wrapped in silence, as in a garment.

That the recognition was mutual was evident from Mr Bickersdyke's look. But apart from this, he gave no sign of having already had the pleasure of making Mike's acquaintance. He merely stared at him as if he were a blot on the arrangement of the furniture, and said, 'Well?'

The most difficult parts to play in real life as well as on the stage are those in which no 'business' is arranged for the performer. It was all very well for Mr Bickersdyke. He had been 'discovered sitting'. But Mike had had to enter, and he wished now that there was something he could do instead of merely standing and speaking.

'I've come,' was the best speech he could think of. It was not a good speech. It was too sinister. He felt that even as he said it. It was the sort of thing Mephistopheles would have said to Faust by way of opening conversation. And he was not sure, either, whether he ought not to have added, 'Sir.'

Apparently such subtleties of address were not necessary, for Mr Bickersdyke did not start up and shout, 'This language to me!' or anything of that kind. He merely said, 'Oh! And who are you?'

'Jackson,' said Mike. It was irritating, this assumption on Mr Bickersdyke's part that they had never met before.

'Jackson? Ah, yes. You have joined the staff?'

Mike rather liked this way of putting it. It lent a certain dignity to the proceedings, making him feel like some important person for whose services there had been strenuous competition. He seemed to see the bank's directors being reassured by the chairman. ('I am happy to say, gentlemen, that our profits for the past year are 3,000,006-2-2 1/2 pounds—(cheers)—and'—impressively—'that we have finally succeeded in inducing Mr Mike Jackson—(sensation)—to—er—in fact, to join the staff!' (Frantic cheers, in which the chairman joined.)

'Yes,' he said.

Mr Bickersdyke pressed a bell on the table beside him, and picking up a pen, began to write. Of Mike he took no further notice, leaving that toy of Fate standing stranded in the middle of the room.

After a few moments one of the men in fancy dress, whom Mike had seen hanging about the gangway, and whom he afterwards found to be messengers, appeared. Mr Bickersdyke looked up.

'Ask Mr Bannister to step this way,' he said.

The messenger disappeared, and presently the door opened again to admit a shock-headed youth with paper cuff-protectors round his wrists.

'This is Mr Jackson, a new member of the staff. He will take your place in the postage department. You will go into the cash department, under Mr Waller. Kindly show him what he has to do.'

Mike followed Mr Bannister out. On the other side of the door the shock-headed one became communicative.

'Whew!' he said, mopping his brow. 'That's the sort of thing which gives me the pip. When William came and said old Bick wanted to see me, I said to him, "William, my boy, my number is up. This is the sack." I made certain that Rossiter had run me in for something. He's been waiting for a chance to do it for weeks, only I've been as good as gold and haven't given it him. I pity you going into the postage. There's one thing, though. If you can stick it for about a month, you'll get through all right. Men are always leaving for the East, and then you get shunted on into another department, and the next new man goes into the postage. That's the best of this place. It's not like one of those banks where you stay in London all your life. You only have three years here, and then you get your orders, and go to one of the branches in the East, where you're the dickens of a big pot straight away, with a big screw and a dozen native Johnnies under you. Bit of all right, that. I shan't get my orders for another two and a half years and more, worse luck. Still, it's something to look forward to.'

'Who's Rossiter?' asked Mike.

'The head of the postage department. Fussy little brute. Won't leave you alone. Always trying to catch you on the hop. There's one thing, though. The work in the postage is pretty simple. You can't make many mistakes, if you're careful. It's mostly entering letters and stamping them.'

They turned in at the door in the counter, and arrived at a desk which ran parallel to the gangway. There was a high rack running along it, on which were several ledgers. Tall, green-shaded electric lamps gave it rather a cosy look.

As they reached the desk, a little man with short, black whiskers buzzed out from behind a glass screen, where there was another desk.

'Where have you been, Bannister, where have you been? You must not leave your work in this way. There are several letters waiting to be entered. Where have you been?'

'Mr Bickersdyke sent for me,' said Bannister, with the calm triumph of one who trumps an ace.

'Oh! Ah! Oh! Yes, very well. I see. But get to work, get to work. Who is this?'

'This is a new man. He's taking my place. I've been moved on to the cash.'

'Oh! Ah! Is your name Smith?' asked Mr Rossiter, turning to Mike.

Mike corrected the rash guess, and gave his name. It struck him as a curious coincidence that he should be asked if his name were Smith, of all others. Not that it is an uncommon name.

'Mr Bickersdyke told me to expect a Mr Smith. Well, well, perhaps there are two new men. Mr Bickersdyke knows we are short-handed in this department. But, come along, Bannister, come along. Show Jackson what he has to do. We must get on. There is no time to waste.'

He buzzed back to his lair. Bannister grinned at Mike. He was a cheerful youth. His normal expression was a grin.

'That's a sample of Rossiter,' he said. 'You'd think from the fuss he's made that the business of the place was at a standstill till we got to work. Perfect rot! There's never anything to do here till after lunch, except checking the stamps and petty cash, and I've done that ages ago. There are three letters. You may as well enter them. It all looks like work. But you'll find the best way is to wait till you get a couple of dozen or so, and then work them off in a batch. But if you see Rossiter about, then start stamping something or writing something, or he'll run you in for neglecting your job. He's a nut. I'm jolly glad I'm under old Waller now. He's the pick of the bunch. The other heads of departments are all nuts, and Bickersdyke's the nuttiest of the lot. Now, look here. This is all you've got to do. I'll just show you, and then you can manage for yourself. I shall have to be shunting off to my own work in a minute.'

title: Psmith in the City/Chapter 4


text: Index:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu

title: Index:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/1


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/2


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/3


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/4


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/5


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/6


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/7


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/8


text:
Psmith in the City/Chapter 5

As Bannister had said, the work in the postage department was not intricate. There was nothing much to do except enter and stamp letters, and, at intervals, take them down to the post office at the end of the street. The nature of the work gave Mike plenty of time for reflection.

His thoughts became gloomy again. All this was very far removed from the life to which he had looked forward. There are some people who take naturally to a life of commerce. Mike was not of these. To him the restraint of the business was irksome. He had been used to an open-air life, and a life, in its way, of excitement. He gathered that he would not be free till five o'clock, and that on the following day he would come at ten and go at five, and the same every day, except Saturdays and Sundays, all the year round, with a ten days' holiday. The monotony of the prospect appalled him. He was not old enough to know what a narcotic is Habit, and that one can become attached to and interested in the most unpromising jobs. He worked away dismally at his letters till he had finished them. Then there was nothing to do except sit and wait for more.

He looked through the letters he had stamped, and re-read the addresses. Some of them were directed to people living in the country, one to a house which he knew quite well, near to his own home in Shropshire. It made him home-sick, conjuring up visions of shady gardens and country sounds and smells, and the silver Severn gleaming in the distance through the trees. About now, if he were not in this dismal place, he would be lying in the shade in the garden with a book, or wandering down to the river to boat or bathe. That envelope addressed to the man in Shropshire gave him the worst moment he had experienced that day.

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!'

'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.

title: Psmith in the City/Chapter 5


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/9


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/238


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/237


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/236


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/235


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/234


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/233


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Campbell, James (1773?-1835)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Campbell, John (d.1563)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Campbell, John (1598-1663)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Campbell, John (1635-1716)


text:
The Natural History of Ireland/Volume 2/The Land Rail

Corncrake. Crex pratensis, Bechst. Rallus crex, Linn.

Is a common summer bird in Ireland.

Owing to the more humid climate and the general prevalence of meadow-land, it is more equally distributed over this island than Great Britain. The land-rail generally appears in the neighbourhood of Belfast as early as we are told it does in the southern counties of England; — within "the last ten days of April ;Footnote 2 and consequently earlier than in the northern parts of that country, where its arrival is said to occur in " the second week of May." Footnote 3 It was seen or heard there on the 12th of April in 1849 (a single bird only and no more for some time afterwards) ; on the 20th in 1832 ; on the 21st in 1833 ; on the 22nd in 1 845 and 1848 ; on the 24th in 1840 ; and on the 25th in 1844. About Carrickfergus, the corncrake has been noticed earlier. In M'Skimmin's history of that place (3rd edit. 1829, p. 352), it is said " the earliest time they have been heard calling was the 17th of April and the latest the 14th of August." According to a paragraph in the 'Northern Whig' newspaper of April 16, 1842, " the corncrake was heard calling in the neighbourhood of Carrickfergus on the 8th-inst., being about ten days earlier than heard at any former period in that district." If correct, this must have been an isolated instance, as in the year 1842, the bird was very late in arrival — or in making itself known by calling — in the neighbourhood of Belfast, where, until the 1st of May, I was not aware of its presence. Its non-appearance before May is a rare occurrence : in 1836 it was very late, and in ] 838 later than ever before known, not being heard until the 6th of May, when numbers appeared all at once. Instead of one or two, as is usual on their first arrival, being heard, not less than ten gave forth their calls at the same time, in the grounds of Port William, on the borders of the bay. Over the north generally they were not quite so late, one having been heard near Downpatrick on the 1st of May, and others on the 4th at the Moyntaghs, bordering Lough Neagh. According to dates supplied by my informants, this bird would appear not to arrive so early in the more southern parts of Ireland as in the northern, an apparent anomaly which possibly may be owing to less attention being paid to the subject there. In the south of Wexford, the dates given for six years are, April 26, 27, 28; May 3, 5, 7 Footnote 4 The 30th of April has been noted as the earliest date of arrival in the neighbourhood of Tralee;Footnote 5 the 13th of May as the average time about Killaloe on the Shannon ; it has been remarked as an early instance that the call was heard at Edgeworthtown (co. Longford) on the 3rd of May, 1838.Footnote 6

The arrival of the corncrake in the north of Ireland has no connexion with the early or late state of the meadows. I have remarked the bird here when they hardly concealed its body from view, and in other years that it would not appear until two or three weeks after they were ready for its reception. Fields of grain and clover are also resorted to, so soon after the bird's arrival as they will afford shelter. Mr. Poole has heard it call early in the season from fields of furze in the county of Wexford, which were better cover at the time than the meadows, and were probably selected on that account.

Everywhere that we go in this island in the months of May, June, and early in July Footnote 7 (irrespective of the vicinity of rivers, which are considered to influence its distribution in Great Britain), except to the mountain top, or to stony and heath-covered tracts, the call of the corncrake is heard, not only at its favourite times, in the evening and during the night, but throughout the day.Footnote 8 From its frequenting the meadows or pastures nearest towns, and even those within them — as the grounds of the Royal Academical Institution, Belfast — the corncrake makes itself heard through the night over a great portion of the towns in Ireland. Owing to its late period of breeding, this bird suffers sadly during the mowing of our meadows, about which time it is generally engaged in incubation. Should it not fall a victim to the mower by the loss of its head, the nest being laid bare is deserted, or if the young have recently "come out," they are often either maimed or destroyed by the scythe. Bewick, in one of the inimitable tail-pieces to his British Birds represents the catastrophe first alluded to. Footnote 9 Fortunately the species is very prolific, laying not unfrequently about a dozen of eggs : the young can run nimbly so soon as they burst the shell.

It is remarked by Sir Win. Jardine respecting this rail, that —" In some parts it has decreased and without apparent cause ; in the vale of the Annan in the south of Scotland, ten years since, the bird was extremely common, its note being heard in almost every alternate field; at the present time it may almost be accounted rare, during last summer (1841) only one or two pairs being heard within a stretch of several miles — ' Brit. Birds vol. iii. p. 331. In the north of Ireland, the land-rail became very much scarcer about the same time as the partridge (see p. 58), and continued so for fully fifteen years. They were never more scarce than in 1843, but within the last very few summers they have, like that species, rapidly increased. At no period have I heard them more plentiful (for we hear rather than see the corncrake) than in the summer of 1848, about Cultra, on the borders of Belfast Bay. They were also numerous that season in various parts of Down and Antrim ; and in 1849 were equally abundant. Their scarcity for a long period seemed the more remarkable, as they had become, around Belfast, less an object of pursuit by sportsmen, than formerly. Their having ever been so, was unpopular, the bird being a general favourite, and viewed as one of the innocent " guests of summer," whose note is as well known as that of the cuckoo, and much more frequently heard. From its slow and slovenly mode of flight also, the corncrake is believed to fall too easy a sacrifice to the gun. So unwilling is this bird to take wing, that I have frequently seen it when running caught on the ground by dogs. The power of flight it can exert is, however, considerable when called forth by the pursuit of the peregrine falcon, as alluded to in the history of that bird.

For a short time only after arrival can the land-rail be followed by the sportsman without injury to the meadows or crops which it frequents. He does not again meet with it until the 20th of September, the first day of partridge-shooting in Ireland. So few are then seen, at least in the north, compared with the numbers in spring before they have bred, that the greater portion has doubtless migrated southwards. In all probability, the old birds which without " let or hindrance " have reared their brood, leave the country with them so soon as they are strong enough for the journey, as in like manner a large portion of swallows depart with their first brood in the month of August, when favourable weather and wind prevail. Occasional birds only, which frequent stubble and potato fields, like partridge, are met with at that time. Through the month of October, few occur, and afterwards their appearance is very rare.The instances within ten miles of Belfast noted after that time, are as follow : — November 5, 1831, a small bird, probably belonging to a late brood, was shot — November 1, 1834, one, and on the 19th of that month, a brace, were obtained : the latter among rushes on Devis mountain — December 22, 1836, "a pensioner" as to flight, but in good condition, was caught on a rushy field by a friend's setting-dog — December 16, 1840, a mild winter, one quite strong on the wing was shot, and proved to be in excellent condition — " January 10, 1788, eight or ten brace were flushed among the rocks at the Knockagh, one of which was shot : it was rather lean."Footnote 11 — On January 29, 1849, and February 1, 1821, single individuals were killed.

With respect to other parts of Ireland : — At Toomavara (Tipperary) a young bird unable to fly was once caught so late as the 18th of October. In the county of Wexford, land-rails are always met with by sportsmen in the month of October, but not in November. Footnote 12 On November 6th, 1848, one was shot in the co. of Cork ; twice in January, birds have been killed in the co. of Dublin, Footnote 13  and in the first week of February 1849, one was obtained in the Moyntaghs, co. Armagh.

The plumage of the laud-rail occasionally appears very pale in hue, and fawn-coloured varieties are sometimes met with. Mr. E. Davis, jun., of Clonmel, procured outhe 6th of August, 1841, "a very fine adult bird without the least appearance of ash-grey on the throat and under plumage, which colour was replaced by a rich yellowish-brown."

At the end of May 1832, 1 learned from a relative that one of these birds which he had then living, was taken when young in the preceding summer, and placed in his garden — a very large walled one — where it lived throughout the winter (which was, however, very mild), without being supplied with any food. I have known different land-rails to be kept upwards of a year where they were not exposed to the weather. They fed freely on bread and milk, potatoes, &c, and kept in good condition. Mr. R. Ball, some years ago, supplied me with the following note : — " A pair of corncrakes have passed two winters in the gardens of the Royal Zoological Society, Phoenix Park, Dublin, and seemed to enjoy excellent health. They inhabit a cage together with a ruff, starlings, thrushes, blackbirds, &c. A supply of chopped beef heart, of which all its denizens partake, is daily put in the cage. The corncrakes probably share in various other kinds of food supplied by visitors to the gardens. They show no symptoms of torpidity, though much exposed to cold. The species simulates death when surprised, and in this state, probably, has been supposed to be torpid."

The following interesting history of corncrakes kept in the house of Mr. Spear, Carrickfergus, has been procured by the kindness of Mr. G. C. Hyndman. The first one (full-grown at the time, but probably a young bird of the year) was obtained in a street of that town when hay was being housed, in the autumn of 1823. It became quite tame, and partook of food very various in kind, such as groats (few, however, of them), raw meat, bread and milk, stirabout and milk, yolk of boiled eggs, and butter, which last was especially relished. It also ate worms, snails, slugs, &c.,Footnote 13 and has been seen to take small sticklebacks (Gasterostei) that happened to be in the water. This bird was very cleanly, and washed every morning in a basin of water set apart for the purpose. It was accustomed to be taken up stairs at night, and brought down in the morning ; and of its own accord habitually went out of the cage into a basket containing moss, where the night was passed, and in the morning likewise left the basket and entered the cage in which it was carried down stairs. When allowed to go about the house, the persons to whom it was attached were sought for, and followed everywhere. On becoming unwell, the poor bird took possession of the lap of a member of the family, and looked up to her apparently for relief ; though when in health, it resisted all attempts at being handled, flying up at the intruder and snapping its mandibles together. Every spring it called with the usual crake, beginning very early in the morning; this was usually commenced in March, but on one occasion was uttered so early as the 3rd of February. As remarked of the bird after this period : — " It would crake quite impudently in the parlour, when brought there to be shown off." Moulting took place in the month of August ; but no symptoms of uneasiness appeared then, or at any particular season. At pairing time, this bird was very comical, coming up with its wings spread, and neck stretched out, after the manner of a turkey-cock, and uttering a peculiar croaking note. It would then make a sort of nest in the cage, croaking all the while, and carry a worm or piece of meat about in its bill. So great a favourite was this corncrake that its death was duly chronicled as taking place on the 14th of January, 1830, after having been kept for above six years.

Another corncrake lived for three or four years in the same cage with the one described. Having been wounded by a dog, it suffered much for a time after being received, yet ate heartily, and, with great care, soon recovered. This individual never showed the same degree of intelligence or tameness as the other. It was not so partial to washing, perhaps owing to its wounded state, but had the same habit of going to and from the day-cage to the basket where the night was spent. It craked in the season, though not so much as the other, and never exhibited the amusing attitudes at pairing-time which have been alluded to. The sex was not known in either instance. The call is generally attributed by naturalists to the male only. Attempts were made to rear others unsuccessfully : on one occasion a young one was put- into the cage with two old birds, which seemed fond of their charge, and endeavoured to induce it to eat by presenting worms in their bills, but ineffectually.

Mr. Knox, in his agreeable Ornithological Rambles in Sussex mentions as a vulgar belief in the county, that cuckoos become hawks in winter. Such is also a prevalent notion among the uneducated in the north of Ireland. In like manner, it is believed here that the corncrake becomes awaterhen {Gattinula chloropus) in winter.

Mr. W. R. Wilde, author of the ' Narrative of a Yoyage to Madeira, the Mediterranean &c, mentioned to me on his return, that when at Algiers in the month of December he saw several land-rails, and was told that the species wintered there.

stretch during the time. was met with in a rushy field on the 25th of September : on the 3rd of October I saw one quite fresh in a poulterer's shop in Edinburgh.
 * Footnote 1 Leigh, in his ' Natural History of Lancashire/ informs us that " the rale is a bird about the bigness of a partridge, and is common in these parts ; it hides itself in the grass, and is discovered by the snarling noise that it continually makes ; it is very excellent food, and doubtless of extraordinary nutriment." — P. 162.
 * Footnote 2 Yarrell, ' Brit. Birds.'
 * Footnote 3 Ibid. Mr. Selby remarks : — In the north of England " it is seldom observed before the beginning of May," vol. ii. p. 177.
 * Footnote 4 Mr. Poole.
 * Footnote 5 Mr. T. F. Neligan.
 * Footnote 6 Rev. T Knox.
 * Footnote 7 In 1832, an ornithological friend remarked respecting the neighbourhood of Belfast, that after the 13th of July he rarely heard them call at night. On the 25th of that month, I listened to one in 1845, as I did to single birds on the nights of the 28th and 29th in 1848, in different districts. The 18th of July has been noted as the latest time at which they called about Killaloe. Mr. Hyndman heard them during three days in the first week of August 1845, which he spent on Tory Island, off the county of Donegal. They are stated to visit that island annually. I was told when in the island of Islay (Scotland) that they are numerous there every summer.
 * Footnote 8 A night watchman in a bleach-green near Belfast, considers that for some time after arrival the birds call by night before they do so by day, and consequently that he is aware of their presence before most other persons — on " nights which are close, and some warming rain," they first make themselves known. Sir Win. Jardine states, that "the crake is uttered by the bird when running, but more frequently when seated on some stone or clod." — 'Brit. Birds,' vol. iii. p. 332. Such birds as have come under my own notice when calling, were stationary, their necks erect and at full
 * Footnote 9 Vignette to the Dotterel, p. 328, in edit, of 1821.
 * Footnote 10 A friend shooting at Aberarder, in the north of Inverness-shire, reported a brace as shot in the third week of September 1838 ; and when there myself in 1842, one
 * Footnote 11 M'Skimmin's ' History of Carrickfergus.'
 * Footnote 12 Major T. Walker.
 * Footnote 13 Mr. R. J. Montgomery.
 * Footnote 14 I have known the horse-leech {Hlrudo sanguisuga) to be found in stomachs of land-rails killed iu a wild state. Three stomachs examined by me on May 15 (1849) exhibited similar food, consisting of the remains of coleopterous insects (which when perfect would have been five lines in length) and of small snails (Limaces) as shown by their shells (Limacellce), and these only ; the animals themselves having wholly disappeared. Fragments of stone also appeared in these three stomachs. The snail must be rapidly digested in the stomachs of birds generally, as in some hundred cases that have come under my examination the internal shell alone has borne witness to its having ever been there.


text: Index:Fraud of Feminism.djvu

title: Index:Fraud of Feminism.djvu


text: Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/11


text:
Page:Fraud of Feminism.djvu/2

 PRINTED BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED EDINBURGH

title: Page:Fraud of Feminism.djvu/2


text: Page:Fraud of Feminism.djvu/4

title: Page:Fraud of Feminism.djvu/4


text:
Page:Tom Swift and His Motor Boat.djvu/12

iv


text:
Page:Fraud of Feminism.djvu/5

 The present volume aims at furnishing a succinct exposure of the pretensions of the Modern Feminist Movement. It aims at presenting the case against it with an especial view to tracking down and gibbetting the infamous falsehoods, the conventional statements, which are not merely perversions of the truth, but which are directly and categorically contrary to the truth, but which pass muster by sheer force of uncontradicted repetition. It is by this kind of bluff that the claims of Feminism are sustained. The following is a fair example of the statements of Feminist writers:—“As for accusing the world at large of fatuous indulgence for womanhood in general, the idea is too preposterous for words. The true ‘legends of the Old Bailey’ tell, not of women absurdly acquitted, but of miserable girls sent to the gallows for murders committed in half delirious dread of the ruthlessness of hypocritical Society.” Now it is this sort of legend that it is one of the chief objects of the following pages to explode. Of course the “fatuous indulgence” for “womanhood in general,” practised by the “world at large,” is precisely one of the most conspicuous features

title: Page:Fraud of Feminism.djvu/5


text:
User:Radartooth

Works completed

 * Doing Clarence A Bit Of Good
 * Rallying Round Old George
 * Helping Freddie
 * Mike
 * Something New
 * In the Days of the Comet
 * The History of Mr. Polly
 * The Girl on the Boat
 * The Clicking of Cuthbert
 * Love Among the Chickens
 * Jill the Reckless
 * Psmith, Journalist
 * The Adventures of Sally
 * Psmith in the City
 * The Job
 * A Damsel in Distress
 * The Coming of Bill
 * Piccadilly Jim
 * Uneasy Money
 * The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces
 * On Picket Duty and Other Tales
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces Abroad
 * A Prefect's Uncle
 * Tales of St. Austin's
 * The Man With Two Left Feet
 * The Gold Bat
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces at Millville
 * Lectures on the Tinnevelly Missions
 * The Head of Kay's
 * The White Feather
 * Not George Washington
 * The Prince and Betty
 * The Little Nugget
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces at Work
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces in Society
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces and Uncle John
 * Allan and the Holy Flower
 * Lysbeth: A Tale of the Dutch
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces on Vacation
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces on the Ranch
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces Out West
 * Aunt Jane's Nieces in the Red Cross
 * The Man of Property
 * The Island Pharisees
 * The Golden Chersonese and the Way Thither
 * Unbeaten Tracks in Japan
 * Mary Louise
 * Mary Louise in the Country
 * Mary Louise Solves a Mystery
 * Mary Louise and the Liberty Girls
 * Jo's Boys
 * Little Men
 * Tom Sawyer, Detective
 * The American Claimant
 * The Message
 * The Wrong Number
 * The Valley of Oblivion
 * In The Country Of The Snows
 * The Secret of Lonesome Cove
 * Mrs. Noah's Ark
 * Three Sisters Of The Wilderness

Works in Progress
Korea & Her Neighbours

title: User:Radartooth


text:
Talk:Scheme: An Interpreter for Extended Lambda Calculus/Section 2

Transcription note
The  example in "Traditional Recursion" has an excess closing parenthesis (a minor syntax error), which I intentionally preserved. --Piet Delport (talk) 13:35, 30 September 2009 (UTC)

 * (Repeated on page 15 (note). --Piet Delport (talk) 04:25, 1 October 2009 (UTC))
 * Paren error corrected in text to reflect authorial intent as demonstrated by HOSC version. Srilumpa (talk) 18:11, 24 June 2012 (UTC)


text:
Psmith in the City/Chapter 6

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.'

Mike picked up the long basket into which he had thrown the letters after entering the addresses in his ledger, and they moved off down the aisle. No movement came from Mr Rossiter's lair. Its energetic occupant was hard at work. They could just see part of his hunched-up back.

'I wish Comrade Downing could see us now,' said Psmith. 'He always set us down as mere idlers. Triflers. Butterflies. It would be a wholesome corrective for him to watch us perspiring like this in the cause of Commerce.'

'You haven't told me yet what on earth you're doing here,' said Mike. 'I thought you were going to the 'Varsity. Why the dickens are you in a bank? Your pater hasn't lost his money, has he?'

'No. There is still a tolerable supply of doubloons in the old oak chest. Mine is a painful story.'

'It always is,' said Mike.

'You are very right, Comrade Jackson. I am the victim of Fate. Ah, so you put the little chaps in there, do you?' he said, as Mike, reaching the post-office, began to bundle the letters into the box. 'You seem to have grasped your duties with admirable promptitude. It is the same with me. I fancy we are both born men of Commerce. In a few years we shall be pinching Comrade Bickersdyke's job. And talking of Comrade B. brings me back to my painful story. But I shall never have time to tell it to you during our walk back. Let us drift aside into this tea-shop. We can order a buckwheat cake or a butter-nut, or something equally succulent, and carefully refraining from consuming these dainties, I will tell you all.'

'Right O!' said Mike.

'When last I saw you,' resumed Psmith, hanging Mike's basket on the hat-stand and ordering two portions of porridge, 'you may remember that a serious crisis in my affairs had arrived. My father inflamed with the idea of Commerce had invited Comrade Bickersdyke—'

'When did you know he was a manager here?' asked Mike.

'At an early date. I have my spies everywhere. However, my pater invited Comrade Bickersdyke to our house for the weekend. Things turned out rather unfortunately. Comrade B. resented my purely altruistic efforts to improve him mentally and morally. Indeed, on one occasion he went so far as to call me an impudent young cub, and to add that he wished he had me under him in his bank, where, he asserted, he would knock some of the nonsense out of me. All very painful. I tell you, Comrade Jackson, for the moment it reduced my delicately vibrating ganglions to a mere frazzle. Recovering myself, I made a few blithe remarks, and we then parted. I cannot say that we parted friends, but at any rate I bore him no ill-will. I was still determined to make him a credit to me. My feelings towards him were those of some kindly father to his prodigal son. But he, if I may say so, was fairly on the hop. And when my pater, after dinner the same night, played into his hands by mentioning that he thought I ought to plunge into a career of commerce, Comrade B. was, I gather, all over him. Offered to make a vacancy for me in the bank, and to take me on at once. My pater, feeling that this was the real hustle which he admired so much, had me in, stated his case, and said, in effect, "How do we go?" I intimated that Comrade Bickersdyke was my greatest chum on earth. So the thing was fixed up and here I am. But you are not getting on with your porridge, Comrade Jackson. Perhaps you don't care for porridge? Would you like a finnan haddock, instead? Or a piece of shortbread? You have only to say the word.'

'It seems to me,' said Mike gloomily, 'that we are in for a pretty rotten time of it in this bally bank. If Bickersdyke's got his knife into us, he can make it jolly warm for us. He's got his knife into me all right about that walking-across-the-screen business.'

'True,' said Psmith, 'to a certain extent. It is an undoubted fact that Comrade Bickersdyke will have a jolly good try at making life a nuisance to us; but, on the other hand, I propose, so far as in me lies, to make things moderately unrestful for him, here and there.'

'But you can't,' objected Mike. 'What I mean to say is, it isn't like a school. If you wanted to score off a master at school, you could always rag and so on. But here you can't. How can you rag a man who's sitting all day in a room of his own while you're sweating away at a desk at the other end of the building?'

'You put the case with admirable clearness, Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith approvingly. 'At the hard-headed, common-sense business you sneak the biscuit every time with ridiculous case. But you do not know all. I do not propose to do a thing in the bank except work. I shall be a model as far as work goes. I shall be flawless. I shall bound to do Comrade Rossiter's bidding like a highly trained performing dog. It is outside the bank, when I have staggered away dazed with toil, that I shall resume my attention to the education of Comrade Bickersdyke.'

'But, dash it all, how can you? You won't see him. He'll go off home, or to his club, or—'

Psmith tapped him earnestly on the chest.

'There, Comrade Jackson,' he said, 'you have hit the bull's-eye, rung the bell, and gathered in the cigar or cocoanut according to choice. He will go off to his club. And I shall do precisely the same.'

'How do you mean?'

'It is this way. My father, as you may have noticed during your stay at our stately home of England, is a man of a warm, impulsive character. He does not always do things as other people would do them. He has his own methods. Thus, he has sent me into the City to do the hard-working, bank-clerk act, but at the same time he is allowing me just as large an allowance as he would have given me if I had gone to the 'Varsity. Moreover, while I was still at Eton he put my name up for his clubs, the Senior Conservative among others. My pater belongs to four clubs altogether, and in course of time, when my name comes up for election, I shall do the same. Meanwhile, I belong to one, the Senior Conservative. It is a bigger club than the others, and your name comes up for election sooner. About the middle of last month a great yell of joy made the West End of London shake like a jelly. The three thousand members of the Senior Conservative had just learned that I had been elected.'

Psmith paused, and ate some porridge.

'I wonder why they call this porridge,' he observed with mild interest. 'It would be far more manly and straightforward of them to give it its real name. To resume. I have gleaned, from casual chit-chat with my father, that Comrade Bickersdyke also infests the Senior Conservative. You might think that that would make me, seeing how particular I am about whom I mix with, avoid the club. Error. I shall go there every day. If Comrade Bickersdyke wishes to emend any little traits in my character of which he may disapprove, he shall never say that I did not give him the opportunity. I shall mix freely with Comrade Bickersdyke at the Senior Conservative Club. I shall be his constant companion. I shall, in short, haunt the man. By these strenuous means I shall, as it were, get a bit of my own back. And now,' said Psmith, rising, 'it might be as well, perhaps, to return to the bank and resume our commercial duties. I don't know how long you are supposed to be allowed for your little trips to and from the post-office, but, seeing that the distance is about thirty yards, I should say at a venture not more than half an hour. Which is exactly the space of time which has flitted by since we started out on this important expedition. Your devotion to porridge, Comrade Jackson, has led to our spending about twenty-five minutes in this hostelry.'

'Great Scott,' said Mike, 'there'll be a row.'

'Some slight temporary breeze, perhaps,' said Psmith. 'Annoying to men of culture and refinement, but not lasting. My only fear is lest we may have worried Comrade Rossiter at all. I regard Comrade Rossiter as an elder brother, and would not cause him a moment's heart-burning for worlds. However, we shall soon know,' he added, as they passed into the bank and walked up the aisle, 'for there is Comrade Rossiter waiting to receive us in person.'

The little head of the Postage Department was moving restlessly about in the neighbourhood of Psmith's and Mike's desk.

'Am I mistaken,' said Psmith to Mike, 'or is there the merest suspicion of a worried look on our chief's face? It seems to me that there is the slightest soupcon of shadow about that broad, calm brow.'

title: Psmith in the City/Chapter 6