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.