The head of the Postage Department gave his opinion without hesitation.
Psmith's work was about the hottest proposition he had ever struck.
Psmith's work--well, it stood alone. You couldn't compare it with
anything. There are no degrees in perfection. Psmith's work was
perfect, and there was an end to it.

He put it differently, but that was the gist of what he said.

Mr Bickersdyke observed he was glad to hear it, and smashed a nib by
stabbing the desk with it.

It was on the evening following this that the bank-manager was due to
address a meeting at the Kenningford Town Hall.

He was looking forward to the event with mixed feelings. He had stood
for Parliament once before, several years back, in the North. He had
been defeated by a couple of thousand votes, and he hoped that the
episode had been forgotten. Not merely because his defeat had been
heavy. There was another reason. On that occasion he had stood as a
Liberal. He was standing for Kenningford as a Unionist. Of course, a
man is at perfect liberty to change his views, if he wishes to do so,
but the process is apt to give his opponents a chance of catching him
(to use the inspired language of the music-halls) on the bend. Mr
Bickersdyke was rather afraid that the light-hearted electors of
Kenningford might avail themselves of this chance.

Kenningford, S.E., is undoubtedly by way of being a tough sort of
place. Its inhabitants incline to a robust type of humour, which finds
a verbal vent in catch phrases and expends itself physically in
smashing shop-windows and kicking policemen. He feared that the meeting