Psmith in the City by P. G. Wodehouse

For the space of about twenty-five minutes Psmith sat in silence, concentrated on his ledger, the picture of the model bank-clerk. Then he flung down his pen, slid from his stool with a satisfied sigh, and 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? "