Books: Psmith, Journalist
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Pelham Grenville Wodehouse >> Psmith, Journalist
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He had only whistled a few bars of "My Little Irish Rose," and had
barely got into the first page of his story of life on the prairie
when Kid Brady appeared. The Kid, as was his habit when not in
training, was smoking a big black cigar. Master Maloney eyed him
admiringly. The Kid, unknown to that gentleman himself, was Pugsy's
ideal. He came from the Plains; and had, indeed, once actually been
a cowboy; he was a coming champion; and he could smoke black
cigars. It was, therefore, without his usual well-what-is-it-now?
air that Pugsy laid down his book, and prepared to converse.
"Say, Mr. Smith or Mr. Windsor about, Pugsy?" asked the Kid.
"Naw, Mr. Brady, they ain't came yet," replied Master Maloney
respectfully.
"Late, ain't they?"
"Sure. Mr. Windsor generally blows in before I do."
"Wonder what's keepin' them."
"P'raps, dey've bin put out of business," suggested Pugsy
nonchalantly.
"How's that?"
Pugsy related the events of the previous day, relaxing something of
his austere calm as he did so. When he came to the part where the
Table Hill allies swooped down on the unsuspecting Three Pointers,
he was almost animated.
"Say," said the Kid approvingly, "that Smith guy's got more grey
matter under his thatch than you'd think to look at him. I--"
"Comrade Brady," said a voice in the doorway, "you do me proud."
"Why, say," said the Kid, turning, "I guess the laugh's on me. I
didn't see you, Mr. Smith. Pugsy's been tellin' me how you sent him
for the Table Hills yesterday. That was cute. It was mighty smart.
But say, those guys are goin' some, ain't they now! Seems as if
they was dead set on puttin' you out of business."
"Their manner yesterday, Comrade Brady, certainly suggested the
presence of some sketchy outline of such an ideal in their minds.
One Sam, in particular, an ebony-hued sportsman, threw himself into
the task with great vim. I rather fancy he is waiting for us with
his revolver to this moment. But why worry? Here we are, safe and
sound, and Comrade Windsor may be expected to arrive at any moment.
I see, Comrade Brady, that you have been matched against one Eddie
Wood."
"It's about that I wanted to see you, Mr. Smith. Say, now that
things have been and brushed up so, what with these gang guys
layin' for you the way they're doin', I guess you'll be needin' me
around here. Isn't that right? Say the word and I'll call off this
Eddie Wood fight."
"Comrade Brady," said Psmith with some enthusiasm, "I call that a
sporting offer. I'm very much obliged. But we mustn't stand in your
way. If you eliminate this Comrade Wood, they will have to give you
a chance against Jimmy Garvin, won't they?"
"I guess that's right, sir," said the Kid. "Eddie stayed nineteen
rounds against Jimmy, and if I can put him away, it gets me into
line with Jimmy, and he can't side-step me."
"Then go in and win, Comrade Brady. We shall miss you. It will be
as if a ray of sunshine had been removed from the office. But you
mustn't throw a chance away. We shall be all right, I think."
"I'll train at White Plains," said the Kid. "That ain't far from
here, so I'll be pretty near in case I'm wanted. Hullo, who's
here?"
He pointed to the door. A small boy was standing there, holding a
note.
"Mr. Smith? "
"Sir to you," said Psmith courteously.
"P. Smith?"
"The same. This is your lucky day."
"Cop at Jefferson Market give me dis to take to youse."
"A cop in Jefferson Market?" repeated Psmith. "I did not know I
had friends among the constabulary there. Why, it's from Comrade
Windsor." He opened the envelope and read the letter. "Thanks," he
said, giving the boy a quarter-dollar.
It was apparent the Kid was politely endeavouring to veil his
curiosity. Master Maloney had no such scruples.
"What's in de letter, boss?" he inquired.
"The letter, Comrade Maloney, is from our Mr. Windsor, and relates
in terse language the following facts, that our editor last night
hit a policeman in the eye, and that he was sentenced this morning
to thirty days on Blackwell's Island."
"He's de guy!" admitted Master Maloney approvingly.
"What's that?" said the Kid. "Mr. Windsor bin punchin' cops! What's
he bin doin' that for?"
"He gives no clue. I must go and find out. Could you help Comrade
Maloney mind the shop for a few moments while I push round to
Jefferson Market and make inquiries?"
"Sure. But say, fancy Mr. Windsor cuttin' loose that way!" said the
Kid admiringly.
The Jefferson Market Police Court is a little way down town, near
Washington Square. It did not take Psmith long to reach it, and by
the judicious expenditure of a few dollars he was enabled to obtain
an interview with Billy in a back room.
The chief editor of Cosy Moments was seated on a bench, looking
upon the world through a pair of much blackened eyes. His general
appearance was dishevelled. He had the air of a man who has been
caught in the machinery.
"Hullo, Smith," he said. "You got my note all right then?"
Psmith looked at him, concerned.
"Comrade Windsor," he said, "what on earth has been happening to
you?"
"Oh, that's all right," said Billy. "That's nothing."
"Nothing! You look as if you had been run over by a motor-car."
"The cops did that," said Billy, without any apparent resentment.
"They always turn nasty if you put up a fight. I was a fool to do
it, I suppose, but I got so mad. They knew perfectly well that I
had nothing to do with any pool-room downstairs."
Psmith's eye-glass dropped from his eye.
"Pool-room, Comrade Windsor?"
"Yes. The house where I live was raided late last night. It seems
that some gamblers have been running a pool-room on the ground
floor. Why the cops should have thought I had anything to do with
it, when I was sleeping peacefully upstairs, is more than I can
understand. Anyway, at about three in the morning there was the
dickens of a banging at my door. I got up to see what was doing,
and found a couple of Policemen there. They told me to come along
with them to the station. I asked what on earth for. I might have
known it was no use arguing with a New York cop. They said they had
been tipped off that there was a pool-room being run in the house,
and that they were cleaning up the house, and if I wanted to say
anything I'd better say it to the magistrate. I said, all right,
I'd put on some clothes and come with them. They said they couldn't
wait about while I put on clothes. I said I wasn't going to travel
about New York in pyjamas, and started to get into my shirt. One of
them gave me a shove in the ribs with his night-stick, and told me
to come along quick. And that made me so mad I hit out." A chuckle
escaped Billy. "He wasn't expecting it, and I got him fair. He went
down over the bookcase. The other cop took a swipe at me with his
club, but by that time I was so mad I'd have taken on Jim Jeffries,
if he had shown up and got in my way. I just sailed in, and was
beginning to make the man think that he had stumbled on Stanley
Ketchel or Kid Brady or a dynamite explosion by mistake, when the
other fellow loosed himself from the bookcase, and they started in
on me together, and there was a general rough house, in the middle
of which somebody seemed to let off about fifty thousand dollars'
worth of fireworks all in a bunch; and I didn't remember anything
more till I found myself in a cell, pretty nearly knocked to
pieces. That's my little life-history. I guess I was a fool to cut
loose that way, but I was so mad I didn't stop to think."
Psmith sighed.
"You have told me your painful story," he said. "Now hear mine.
After parting with you last night, I went meditatively back to my
Fourth Avenue address, and, with a courtly good night to the large
policeman who, as I have mentioned in previous conversations, is
stationed almost at my very door, I passed on into my room, and had
soon sunk into a dreamless slumber. At about three o'clock in the
morning I was aroused by a somewhat hefty banging on the door. "
"What!"
"A banging at the door," repeated Psmith. "There, standing on the
mat, were three policemen. From their remarks I gathered that
certain bright spirits had been running a gambling establishment in
the lower regions of the building--where, I think I told you, there
is a saloon--and the Law was now about to clean up the place. Very
cordially the honest fellows invited me to go with them. A
conveyance, it seemed, waited in the street without. I pointed out,
even as you appear to have done, that sea-green pyjamas with old
rose frogs were not the costume in which a Shropshire Psmith should
be seen abroad in one of the world's greatest cities; but they
assured me--more by their manner than their words--that my
misgivings were out of place, so I yielded. These men, I told
myself, have lived longer in New York than I. They know what is
done and what is not done. I will bow to their views. So I went
with them, and after a very pleasant and cosy little ride in the
patrol waggon, arrived at the police station. This morning I
chatted a while with the courteous magistrate, convinced him by
means of arguments and by silent evidence of my open, honest face
and unwavering eye that I was not a professional gambler, and came
away without a stain on my character."
Billy Windsor listened to this narrative with growing interest.
"Gum! it's them!" he cried.
"As Comrade Maloney would say," said Psmith, "meaning what,
Comrade Windsor?"
Why, the fellows who are after that paper. They tipped the police
off about the pool-rooms, knowing that we should be hauled off
without having time to take anything with us. I'll bet anything you
like they have been in and searched our rooms by now."
"As regards yours, Comrade Windsor, I cannot say. But it is an
undoubted fact that mine, which I revisited before going to the
office, in order to correct what seemed to me even on reflection
certain drawbacks to my costume, looks as if two cyclones and a
threshing machine had passed through it."
"They've searched it?"
"With a fine-toothed comb. Not one of my objects of vertu but has
been displaced."
Billy Windsor slapped his knee.
"It was lucky you thought of sending that paper by post," he said.
"We should have been done if you hadn't. But, say," he went on
miserably, "this is awful. Things are just warming up for the final
burst, and I'm out of it all."
"For thirty days," sighed Psmith. "What Cosy Moments really needs
is a sitz-redacteur."
"A what?"
A sitz-redacteur, Comrade Windsor, is a gentleman employed by
German newspapers with a taste for lese majeste to go to prison
whenever required in place of the real editor. The real editor
hints in his bright and snappy editorial, for instance, that the
Kaiser's moustache reminds him of a bad dream. The police force
swoops down en masse on the office of the journal, and are met by
the sitz-redacteur, who goes with them peaceably, allowing the
editor to remain and sketch out plans for his next week's article
on the Crown Prince. We need a sitz-redacteur on Cosy Moments
almost as much as a fighting editor; and we have neither."
"The Kid has had to leave then?"
"He wants to go into training at once. He very sportingly offered
to cancel his match, but of course that would never do. Unless you
consider Comrade Maloney equal to the job, I must look around me
for some one else. I shall be too fully occupied with purely
literary matters to be able to deal with chance callers. But I have
a scheme."
"What's that?"
"It seems to me that we are allowing much excellent material to lie
unused in the shape of Comrade Jarvis."
"Bat Jarvis."
"The same. The cat-specialist to whom you endeared yourself
somewhat earlier in the proceedings by befriending one of his
wandering animals. Little deeds of kindness, little acts of love,
as you have doubtless heard, help, etc. Should we not give Comrade
Jarvis an opportunity of proving the correctness of this statement?
I think so. Shortly after you--if you will forgive me for touching
on painful subject--have been haled to your dungeon, I will push
round to Comrade Jarvis's address, and sound him on the subject.
Unfortunately, his affection is confined, I fancy, to you. Whether
he will consent to put himself out on my behalf remains to be seen.
However, there is no harm in trying. If nothing else comes of the
visit, I shall at least have had the opportunity of chatting with
one of our most prominent citizens."
A policeman appeared at the door.
"Say, pal," he remarked to Psmith, "you'll have to be fading away
soon, I guess. Give you three minutes more. Say it quick."
He retired. Billy leaned forward to Psmith.
"I guess they won't give me much chance," he whispered, "but if you
see me around in the next day or two, don't be surprised."
"I fail to follow you, Comrade Windsor."
"Men have escaped from Blackwell's Island before now. Not many,
it's true; but it has been done."
Psmith shook his head.
"I shouldn't," he said. "They're bound to catch you, and then you
will be immersed in the soup beyond hope of recovery. I shouldn't
wonder if they put you in your little cell for a year or so."
"I don't care," said Billy stoutly. "I'd give a year later on to be
round and about now."
"I shouldn't," urged Psmith. "All will be well with the paper. You
have left a good man at the helm."
"I guess I shan't get a chance, but I'll try it if I do."
The door opened and the policeman reappeared.
"Time's up, I reckon."
"Well, good-bye, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith regretfully.
"Abstain from undue worrying. It's a walk-over from now on, and
there's no earthly need for you to be around the office. Once, I
admit, this could not have been said. But now things have
simplified themselves. Have no fear. This act is going to be a
scream from start to finish."
CHAPTER XXIV
A GATHERING OF CAT-SPECIALISTS
MASTER MALONEY raised his eyes for a moment from his book as Psmith
re-entered the office.
"Dere's a guy in dere waitin' ter see youse, he said briefly,
jerking his head in the direction of the inner room.
"A guy waiting to see me, Comrade Maloney? With or without a
sand-bag?"
"Says his name's Jackson," said Master Maloney, turning a page.
Psmith moved quickly to the door of the inner room.
"Why, Comrade Jackson," he said, with the air of a father welcoming
home the prodigal son, "this is the maddest, merriest day of all
the glad New Year. Where did you come from?"
Mike, looking very brown and in excellent condition, put down the
paper he was reading.
"Hullo, Psmith," he said. "I got back this morning. We're playing a
game over in Brooklyn to-morrow."
"No engagements of any importance to-day?"
"Not a thing. Why?"
"Because I propose to take you to visit Comrade Jarvis, whom you
will doubtless remember."
"Jarvis?" said Mike, puzzled. "I don't remember any Jarvis."
"Let your mind wander back a little through the jungle of the past.
Do you recollect paying a visit to Comrade Windsor's room--"
"By the way, where is Windsor?"
"In prison. Well, on that evening--"
"In prison?"
"For thirty days. For slugging a policeman. More of this, however,
anon. Let us return to that evening. Don't you remember a certain
gentleman with just about enough forehead to keep his front hair
from getting all tangled up with his eye-brows?"
"Oh, the cat chap? I know."
"As you very justly observe, Comrade Jackson, the cat chap. For
going straight to the mark and seizing on the salient point of a
situation, I know of no one who can last two minutes against you.
Comrade Jarvis may have other sides to his character--possibly
many--but it is as a cat chap that I wish to approach him to-day."
"What's the idea? What are you going to see him for?"
"We," corrected Psmith. "I will explain all at a little luncheon at
which I trust that you will be my guest. Already, such is the
stress of this journalistic life, I hear my tissues crying out
imperatively to be restored. An oyster and a glass of milk
somewhere round the corner, Comrade Jackson? I think so, I think
so."
* * *
"I was reading Cosy Moments in there," said Mike, as they lunched.
"You certainly seem to have bucked it up rather. Kid Brady's
reminiscences are hot stuff."
"Somewhat sizzling, Comrade Jackson," admitted Psmith. "They have,
however, unfortunately cost us a fighting editor."
"How's that?"
"Such is the boost we have given Comrade Brady, that he is now
never without a match. He has had to leave us to-day to go to White
Plains to train for an encounter with a certain Mr. Wood, a
four-ounce-glove juggler of established fame."
"I expect you need a fighting editor, don't you?"
"He is indispensable, Comrade Jackson, indispensable."
"No rotting. Has anybody cut up rough about the stuff you've
printed?"
"Cut up rough? Gadzooks! I need merely say that one critical reader
put a bullet through my hat--"
"Rot! Not really?"
"While others kept me tree'd on top of a roof for the space of
nearly an hour. Assuredly they have cut up rough, Comrade Jackson."
"Great Scott! Tell us."
Psmith briefly recounted the adventures of the past few weeks.
"But, man," said Mike, when he had finished "why on earth don't you
call in the police?"
"We have mentioned the matter to certain of the force. They
appeared tolerably interested, but showed no tendency to leap
excitedly to our assistance. The New York policeman, Comrade
Jackson, like all great men, is somewhat peculiar. If you go to a
New York policeman and exhibit a black eye, he will examine it and
express some admiration for the abilities of the citizen
responsible for the same. If you press the matter, he becomes
bored, and says, 'Ain't youse satisfied with what youse got?
G'wan!' His advice in such cases is good, and should be followed.
No; since coming to this city I have developed a habit of taking
care of myself, or employing private help. That is why I should
like you, if you will, to come with me to call upon Comrade Jarvis.
He is a person of considerable influence among that section of the
populace which is endeavouring to smash in our occiputs. Indeed, I
know of nobody who cuts a greater quantity of ice. If I can only
enlist Comrade Jarvis's assistance, all will be well. If you are
through with your refreshment, shall we be moving in his direction?
By the way, it will probably be necessary in the course of our
interview to allude to you as one of our most eminent living
cat-fanciers. You do not object? Remember that you have in your
English home seventy-four fine cats, mostly Angoras. Are you on to
that? Then let us be going. Comrade Maloney has given me the
address. It is a goodish step down on the East side. I should like
to take a taxi, but it might seem ostentatious. Let us walk."
* * *
They found Mr. Jarvis in his Groome Street fancier's shop, engaged
in the intellectual occupation of greasing a cat's paws with butter.
He looked up as they entered, and began to breathe a melody with a
certain coyness.
"Comrade Jarvis," said Psmith, "we meet again. You remember me?"
"Nope," said Mr. Jarvis, pausing for a moment in the middle of a
bar, and then taking up the air where he had left off. Psmith was
not discouraged.
"Ah," he said tolerantly, "the fierce rush of New York life. How it
wipes from the retina of to-day the image impressed on it but
yesterday. Are you with me, Comrade Jarvis?"
The cat-expert concentrated himself on the cat's paws without
replying.
"A fine animal," said Psmith, adjusting his eyeglass. "To which
particular family of the Felis Domestica does that belong? In
colour it resembles a Neapolitan ice more than anything."
Mr. Jarvis's manner became unfriendly.
"Say, what do youse want? That's straight ain't it? If youse want
to buy a boid or a snake why don't youse say so?"
"I stand corrected," said Psmith. "I should have remembered that
time is money. I called in here partly on the strength of being a
colleague and side-partner of Comrade Windsor--"
"Mr. Windsor! De gent what caught my cat?"
"The same--and partly in order that I might make two very eminent
cat-fanciers acquainted. This," he said, with a wave of his hand
in the direction of the silently protesting Mike, "is Comrade
Jackson, possibly the best known of our English cat-fanciers.
Comrade Jackson's stud of Angoras is celebrated wherever the King's
English is spoken, and in Hoxton."
Mr. Jarvis rose, and, having inspected Mike with silent admiration
for a while, extended a well-buttered hand towards him. Psmith
looked on benevolently.
"What Comrade Jackson does not know about cats," he said, "is not
knowledge. His information on Angoras alone would fill a volume."
"Say,"--Mr. Jarvis was evidently touching on a point which had
weighed deeply upon him--"why's catnip called catnip?"
Mike looked at Psmith helplessly. It sounded like a riddle, but it
was obvious that Mr. Jarvis's motive in putting the question was
not frivolous. He really wished to know.
"The word, as Comrade Jackson was just about to observe," said
Psmith, "is a corruption of cat-mint. Why it should be so corrupted
I do not know. But what of that? The subject is too deep to be gone
fully into at the moment. I should recommend you to read Comrade
Jackson's little brochure on the matter. Passing lightly on from
that--"
"Did youse ever have a cat dat ate beetles?" inquired Mr. Jarvis.
"There was a time when many of Comrade Jackson's felidae supported
life almost entirely on beetles."
"Did they git thin?"
Mike felt that it was time, if he was to preserve his reputation,
to assert himself.
"No," he replied firmly.
Mr. Jarvis looked astonished.
"English beetles," said Psmith, "don't make cats thin. Passing
lightly--"
"I had a cat oncest," said Mr. Jarvis, ignoring the remark and
sticking to his point, "dat ate beetles and got thin and used to
tie itself into knots."
"A versatile animal," agreed Psmith.
"Say," Mr. Jarvis went on, now plainly on a subject near to his
heart, "dem beetles is fierce. Sure. Can't keep de cats off of
eatin' dem, I can't. First t'ing you know dey've swallowed dem, and
den dey gits thin and ties theirselves into knots."
"You should put them into strait-waistcoats," said Psmith.
"Passing, however, lightly--"
"Say, ever have a cross-eyed cat?"
"Comrade Jackson's cats," said Psmith, "have happily been almost
free from strabismus."
"Dey's lucky, cross-eyed cats is. You has a cross-eyed cat, and
not'in' don't never go wrong. But, say, was dere ever a cat wit
one blue eye and one yaller one in your bunch? Gum, it's fierce
when it's like dat. It's a real skiddoo, is a cat wit one blue eye
and one yaller one. Puts you in bad, surest t'ing you know. Oncest
a guy give me a cat like dat, and first t'ing you know I'm in bad
all round. It wasn't till I give him away to de cop on de corner
and gets me one dat's cross-eyed dat I lifts de skiddoo off of me."
"And what happened to the cop?" inquired Psmith, interested.
"Oh, he got in bad, sure enough," said Mr. Jarvis without emotion.
"One of de boys what he'd pinched and had sent to de Island once
lays for him and puts one over him wit a black-jack. Sure. Dat's
what comes of havin' a cat wit one blue eye and one yaller one."
Mr. Jarvis relapsed into silence. He seemed to be meditating on the
inscrutable workings of Fate. Psmith took advantage of the pause
to leave the cat topic and touch on matter of more vital import.
"Tense and exhilarating as is this discussion of the optical
peculiarities of cats," he said, "there is another matter on which,
if you will permit me, I should like to touch. I would hesitate to
bore you with my own private troubles, but this is a matter which
concerns Comrade Windsor as well as myself, and I know that your
regard for Comrade Windsor is almost an obsession."
"How's that?"
"I should say," said Psmith, "that Comrade Windsor is a man to whom
you give the glad hand."
"Sure. He's to the good, Mr. Windsor is. He caught me cat."
"He did. By the way, was that the one that used to tie itself into
knots?"
"Nope. Dat was anudder."
"Ah! However, to resume. The fact is, Comrade Jarvis, we are much
persecuted by scoundrels. How sad it is in this world! We look to
every side. We look north, east, south, and west, and what do we
see? Mainly scoundrels. I fancy you have heard a little about our
troubles before this. In fact, I gather that the same scoundrels
actually approached you with a view to engaging your services to
do us in, but that you very handsomely refused the contract."
"Sure," said Mr. Jarvis, dimly comprehending.
"A guy comes to me and says he wants you and Mr. Windsor put
through it, but I gives him de t'run down. 'Nuttin' done,' I says.
'Mr. Windsor caught me cat.'"
"So I was informed," said Psmith. "Well, failing you, they went to
a gentleman of the name of Reilly."
"Spider Reilly?"
"You have hit it, Comrade Jarvis. Spider Reilly, the lessee and
manager of the Three Points gang."
"Dose T'ree Points, dey're to de bad. Dey're fresh."
"It is too true, Comrade Jarvis."
"Say," went on Mr. Jarvis, waxing wrathful at the recollection,
"what do youse t'ink dem fresh stiffs done de udder night. Started
some rough woik in me own dance-joint."
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