Psmith, who had been listening with an air of pleased interest, much as
a father would listen to his child prattling for the benefit of a
visitor, confirmed this statement.

'Comrade Jackson,' he said, 'has put the matter with his usual
admirable clearness. That is the thing in a nutshell. Has Comrade
Rossiter any hobby that you know of? Spillikins, brass-rubbing, the
Near Eastern Question, or anything like that? I have tried him with
postage-stamps (which you'd think, as head of a postage department, he
ought to be interested in), and dried seaweed, Hall Caine, but I have
the honour to report total failure. The man seems to have no pleasures.
What does he do with himself when the day's toil is ended? That giant
brain must occupy itself somehow.'

'I don't know,' said Bannister, 'unless it's football. I saw him once
watching Chelsea. I was rather surprised.'

'Football,' said Psmith thoughtfully, 'football. By no means a scaly
idea. I rather fancy, Comrade Bannister, that you have whanged the nail
on the head. Is he strong on any particular team? I mean, have you ever
heard him, in the intervals of business worries, stamping on his desk
and yelling, "Buck up Cottagers!" or "Lay 'em out, Pensioners!" or
anything like that? One moment.' Psmith held up his hand. 'I will get
my Sherlock Holmes system to work. What was the other team in the
modern gladiatorial contest at which you saw Comrade Rossiter?'

'Manchester United.'

'And Comrade Rossiter, I should say, was a Manchester man.'