entire office was on the jump. The messengers were collected in a
pallid group in the basement, discussing the affair in whispers and
endeavouring to restore their nerve with about sixpenn'orth of the
beverage known as 'unsweetened'. The heads of departments, to a man,
had bowed before the storm. Within the space of seven minutes and a
quarter Mr Bickersdyke had contrived to find some fault with each of
them. Inward Bills was out at an A.B.C. shop snatching a hasty cup of
coffee, to pull him together again. Outward Bills was sitting at his
desk with the glazed stare of one who has been struck in the thorax by
a thunderbolt. Mr Rossiter had been torn from Psmith in the middle of a
highly technical discussion of the Manchester United match, just as he
was showing--with the aid of a ball of paper--how he had once seen
Meredith centre to Sandy Turnbull in a Cup match, and was now leaping
about like a distracted grasshopper. Mr Waller, head of the Cash
Department, had been summoned to the Presence, and after listening
meekly to a rush of criticism, had retired to his desk with the air of
a beaten spaniel.

Only one man of the many in the building seemed calm and happy--Psmith.

Psmith had resumed the chat about Manchester United, on Mr Rossiter's
return from the lion's den, at the spot where it had been broken off;
but, finding that the head of the Postage Department was in no mood for
discussing football (or any thing else), he had postponed his remarks
and placidly resumed his work.

Mr Bickersdyke picked up a paper, opened it, and began searching the
columns. He had not far to look. It was a slack season for the
newspapers, and his little trouble, which might have received a
paragraph in a busy week, was set forth fully in three-quarters of a