'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.