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Mr. Parker said nothing.
"I see," said Psmith with ready sympathy. "I understand. Say no
more. You are unmarried. She wouldn't have you. Alas, Comrade
Parker! However, thus it is! We look around us, and what do we
see? A solid phalanx of the girls we have loved and lost. Tell me
about her, Comrade Parker. Was it your face or your manners at
which she drew the line?"
Mr. Parker leaned forward with a scowl. Psmith did not move, but
his right hand, as it hung, closed. Another moment and Mr. Parker's
chin would be in just the right position for a swift upper-cut. . .
This fact appeared suddenly to dawn on Mr. Parker himself. He drew
back quickly, and half raised the revolver. Psmith's hand resumed
its normal attitude.
"Leaving more painful topics," said Psmith, "let us turn to another
point. That note which the grubby stripling brought to me at the
office purported to come from Comrade Windsor, and stated that he
had escaped from Blackwell's Island, and was awaiting my arrival at
some address in the Bowery. Would you mind telling me, purely to
satisfy my curiosity, if that note was genuine? I have never made
a close study of Comrade Windsor's handwriting, and in an unguarded
moment I may have assumed too much."
Mr. Parker permitted himself a smile.
"I guess you aren't so clever after all," he said. "The note was a
fake all right."
"And you had this cab waiting for me on the chance?"
Mr. Parker nodded.
"Sherlock Holmes was right," said Psmith regretfully. "You may
remember that he advised Doctor Watson never to take the first cab,
or the second. He should have gone further, and urged him not to
take cabs at all. Walking is far healthier."
"You'll find it so," said Mr. Parker.
Psmith eyed him curiously.
"What are you going to do with me, Comrade Parker?" he asked.
Mr. Parker did not reply. Psmith's eye turned again to the window.
They had covered much ground since last he had looked at the view.
They were off Manhattan Island now, and the houses were beginning
to thin out. Soon, travelling at their present rate, they must come
into the open country. Psmith relapsed into silence. It was
necessary for him to think. He had been talking in the hope of
getting the other off his guard; but Mr. Parker was evidently too
keenly on the look-out. The hand that held the revolver never
wavered. The muzzle, pointing in an upward direction, was aimed at
Psmith's waist. There was no doubt that a move on his part would be
fatal. If the pistol went off, it must hit him. If it had been
pointed at his head in the orthodox way he might have risked a
sudden blow to knock it aside, but in the present circumstances
that would be useless. There was nothing to do but wait.
The cab moved swiftly on. Now they had reached the open country. An
occasional wooden shack was passed, but that was all. At any moment
the climax of the drama might be reached. Psmith's muscles
stiffened for a spring. There was little chance of its being
effective, but at least it would be better to put up some kind of a
fight. And he had a faint hope that the suddenness of his movement
might upset the other's aim. He was bound to be hit somewhere.
That was certain. But quickness might save him to some extent.
He braced his leg against the back of the cab. In another moment
he would have sprung; but just then the smooth speed of the cab
changed to a series of jarring bumps, each more emphatic than the
last. It slowed down, then came to a halt. One of the tyres had
burst.
There was a thud, as the chauffeur jumped down. They heard him
fumbling in the tool-box. Presently the body of the machine was
raised slightly as he got to work with the jack.
It was about a minute later that somebody in the road outside
spoke.
"Had a breakdown?" inquired the voice. Psmith recognised it. It
was the voice of Kid Brady.
CHAPTER XXVII
PSMITH CONCLUDES HIS RIDE
THE Kid, as he had stated to Psmith at their last interview that he
intended to do, had begun his training for his match with Eddie
Wood, at White Plains, a village distant but a few miles from New
York. It was his practice to open a course of training with a
little gentle road-work; and it was while jogging along the highway
a couple of miles from his training-camp, in company with the two
thick-necked gentlemen who acted as his sparring-partners, that he
had come upon the broken-down taxi-cab.
If this had happened after his training had begun in real earnest,
he would have averted his eyes from the spectacle, however
alluring, and continued on his way without a pause. But now, as he
had not yet settled down to genuine hard work, he felt justified in
turning aside and looking into the matter. The fact that the
chauffeur, who seemed to be a taciturn man, lacking the
conversational graces, manifestly objected to an audience, deterred
him not at all. One cannot have everything in this world, and the
Kid and his attendant thick-necks were content to watch the process
of mending the tyre, without demanding the additional joy of
sparkling small-talk from the man in charge of the operations.
"Guy's had a breakdown, sure," said the first of the thick-necks.
"Surest thing you know," agreed his colleague.
"Seems to me the tyre's punctured," said the Kid.
All three concentrated their gaze on the machine
"Kid's right," said thick-neck number one. "Guy's been an' bust a
tyre."
"Surest thing you know," said thick-neck number two.
They observed the perspiring chauffeur in silence for a while.
"Wonder how he did that, now?" speculated the Kid.
"Guy ran over a nail, I guess," said thick-neck number one.
"Surest thing you know," said the other, who, while perhaps
somewhat lacking in the matter of original thought, was a most
useful fellow to have by one. A sort of Boswell.
"Did you run over a nail?" the Kid inquired of the chauffeur.
The chauffeur ignored the question.
"This is his busy day," said the first thick-neck with satire.
"Guy's too full of work to talk to us."
"Deaf, shouldn't wonder," surmised the Kid.
"Say, wonder what he's doin' with a taxi so far out of the city."
"Some guy tells him to drive him out here, I guess. Say, it'll cost
him something, too. He'll have to strip off a few from his roll to
pay for this."
Psmith, in the interior of the cab, glanced at Mr. Parker.
"You heard, Comrade Parker? He is right, I fancy. The bill--"
Mr. Parker dug viciously at him with the revolver.
"Keep quiet," he whispered, "or you'll get hurt."
Psmith suspended his remarks.
Outside, the conversation had begun again.
"Pretty rich guy inside," said the Kid, following up his
companion's train of thought. "I'm goin' to rubber in at the
window."
Psmith, meeting Mr. Parker's eye, smiled pleasantly. There was no
answering smile on the other's face.
There came the sound of the Kid's feet grating on the road as he
turned; and as he heard it Mr. Parker, that eminent tactician, for
the first time lost his head. With a vague idea of screening Psmith
from the eyes of the man in the road he half rose. For an instant
the muzzle of the pistol ceased to point at Psmith's waistcoat. It
was the very chance Psmith had been waiting for. His left hand shot
out, grasped the other's wrist, and gave it a sharp wrench. The
revolver went off with a deafening report, the bullet passing
through the back of the cab; then fell to the floor, as the fingers
lost their hold. The next moment Psmith's right fist, darting
upwards, took Mr. Parker neatly under the angle of the jaw.
The effect was instantaneous. Psmith had risen from his seat as he
delivered the blow, and it consequently got the full benefit of his
weight, which was not small. Mr. Parker literally crumpled up. His
head jerked back, then fell limply on his chest. He would have
slipped to the floor had not Psmith pushed him on to the seat.
The interested face of the Kid appeared at the window. Behind him
could be seen portions of the faces of the two thick-necks.
"Ah, Comrade Brady!" said Psmith genially. "I heard your voice,
and was hoping you might look in for a chat."
"What's doin', Mr. Smith?" queried the excited Kid.
"Much, Comrade Brady, much. I will tell you all anon. Meanwhile,
however, kindly knock that chauffeur down and sit on his head. He's
a bad person."
"De guy's beat it," volunteered the first thick-neck.
"Surest thing you know," said the other.
"What's been doin', Mr. Smith?" asked the Kid.
"I'll tell you about it as we go, Comrade Brady," said Psmith,
stepping into the road. "Riding in a taxi is pleasant provided it
is not overdone. For the moment I have had sufficient. A bit of
walking will do me good."
"What are you going to do with this guy, Mr. Smith?" asked the
Kid, pointing to Parker, who had begun to stir slightly.
Psmith inspected the stricken one gravely.
"I have no use for him, Comrade Brady," he said. "Our ride together
gave me as much of his society as I desire for to-day. Unless you
or either of your friends are collecting Parkers, I propose that we
leave him where he is. We may as well take the gun, however. In my
opinion, Comrade Parker is not the proper man to have such a
weapon. He is too prone to go firing it off in any direction at a
moment's notice, causing inconvenience to all." He groped on the
floor of the cab for the revolver. "Now, Comrade Brady," he said,
straightening himself up, "I am at your disposal. Shall we be
pushing on?"
* * *
It was late in the evening when Psmith returned to the metropolis,
after a pleasant afternoon at the Brady training-camp. The Kid,
having heard the details of the ride, offered once more to abandon
his match with Eddie Wood, but Psmith would not hear of it. He was
fairly satisfied that the opposition had fired their last shot, and
that their next move would be to endeavour to come to terms. They
could not hope to catch him off his guard a second time, and, as
far as hired assault and battery were concerned, he was as safe in
New York, now that Bat Jarvis had declared himself on his side, as
he would have been in the middle of a desert. What Bat said was
law on the East Side. No hooligan, however eager to make money,
would dare to act against a protege of the Groome Street leader.
The only flaw in Psmith's contentment was the absence of Billy
Windsor. On this night of all nights the editorial staff of Cosy
Moments should have been together to celebrate the successful
outcome of their campaign. Psmith dined alone, his enjoyment of the
rather special dinner which he felt justified in ordering in honour
of the somewhat diminished by the thought of Billy's hard case. He
had seen Mr William Collier in The Man from Mexico, and that had
given him an understanding of what a term of imprisonment on
Blackwell's Island meant. Billy, during these lean days, must be
supporting life on bread, bean soup, and water. Psmith, toying with
the hors d'oeuvre, was somewhat saddened by the thought.
* * *
All was quiet at the office on the following day. Bat Jarvis,
again accompanied by the faithful Otto, took up his position in the
inner room, prepared to repel all invaders; but none arrived. No
sounds broke the peace of the outer office except the whistling of
Master Maloney.
Things were almost dull when the telephone bell rang. Psmith took
down the receiver.
"Hullo?" he said.
"I'm Parker," said a moody voice.
Psmith uttered a cry of welcome.
"Why, Comrade Parker, this is splendid! How goes it? Did you get
back all right yesterday? I was sorry to have to tear myself away,
but I had other engagements. But why use the telephone? Why not
come here in person? You know how welcome you are. Hire a taxi-cab
and come right round."
Mr. Parker made no reply to the invitation.
"Mr. Waring would like to see you."
"Who, Comrade Parker?"
"Mr. Stewart Waring."
"The celebrated tenement house-owner?"
Silence from the other end of the wire. "Well," said Psmith, "what
step does he propose to take towards it?"
"He tells me to say that he will be in his office at twelve o'clock
to-morrow morning. His office is in the Morton Building, Nassau
Street."
Psmith clicked his tongue regretfully.
"Then I do not see how we can meet," he said. "I shall be here."
"He wishes to see you at his office."
I am sorry, Comrade Parker. It is impossible. I am very busy just
now, as you may know, preparing the next number, the one in which we
publish the name of the owner of the Pleasant Street Tenements.
Otherwise, I should be delighted. Perhaps later, when the rush of
work has diminished somewhat."
"Am I to tell Mr. Waring that you refuse?"
"If you are seeing him at any time and feel at a loss for something
to say, perhaps you might mention it. Is there anything else I can
do for you, Comrade Parker?"
"See here--"
"Nothing? Then good-bye. Look in when you're this way."
He hung up the receiver.
As he did so, he was aware of Master Maloney standing beside the
table.
"Yes, Comrade Maloney?"
"Telegram," said Pugsy. "For Mr. Windsor."
Psmith ripped open the envelope.
The message ran:
"Returning to-day. Will be at office to-morrow morning," and it was
signed "Wilberfloss."
"See who's here!" said Psmith softly.
CHAPTER XXVIII
STANDING ROOM ONLY
IN the light of subsequent events it was perhaps the least bit
unfortunate that Mr. Jarvis should have seen fit to bring with him
to the office of Cosy Moments on the following morning two of his
celebrated squad of cats, and that Long Otto, who, as usual,
accompanied him, should have been fired by his example to the
extent of introducing a large and rather boisterous yellow dog.
They were not to be blamed, of course. They could not know that
before the morning was over space in the office would be at a
premium. Still, it was unfortunate.
Mr. Jarvis was slightly apologetic.
"T'ought I'd bring de kits along," he said. "Dey started in
scrappin' yesterday when I was here, so to-day I says I'll keep my
eye on dem."
Psmith inspected the menagerie without resentment.
"Assuredly, Comrade Jarvis," he said. "They add a pleasantly cosy
and domestic touch to the scene. The only possible criticism I can
find to make has to do with their probable brawling with the dog."
"Oh, dey won't scrap wit de dawg. Dey knows him."
"But is he aware of that? He looks to me a somewhat impulsive
animal. Well, well, the matter's in your hands. If you will
undertake to look after the refereeing of any pogrom that may
arise, I say no more."
Mr. Jarvis's statement as to the friendly relations between the
animals proved to be correct. The dog made no attempt to annihilate
the cats. After an inquisitive journey round the room he lay down
and went to sleep, and an era of peace set in. The cats had settled
themselves comfortably, one on each of Mr. Jarvis's knees, and Long
Otto, surveying the ceiling with his customary glassy stare,
smoked a long cigar in silence. Bat breathed a tune, and scratched
one of the cats under the ear. It was a soothing scene.
But it did not last. Ten minutes had barely elapsed when the yellow
dog, sitting up with a start, uttered a whine. In the outer office
could be heard a stir and movement. The next moment the door burst
open and a little man dashed in. He had a peeled nose and showed
other evidences of having been living in the open air. Behind him
was a crowd of uncertain numbers. Psmith recognised the leaders of
this crowd. They were the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts and Mr. B.
Henderson Asher.
"Why, Comrade Asher," he said, "this is indeed a Moment of Mirth. I
have been wondering for weeks where you could have got to. And
Comrade Philpotts! Am I wrong in saying that this is the maddest,
merriest day of all the glad New Year?"
The rest of the crowd had entered the room.
"Comrade Waterman, too!" cried Psmith. "Why we have all met
before. Except--"
He glanced inquiringly at the little man with the peeled nose.
"My name is Wilberfloss," said the other with austerity. "Will you
be so good as to tell me where Mr. Windsor is?"
A murmur of approval from his followers.
"In one moment," said Psmith. "First, however, let me introduce two
important members of our staff. On your right, Mr. Bat Jarvis. On
your left, Mr. Long Otto. Both of Groome Street."
The two Bowery boys rose awkwardly. The cats fell in an avalanche
to the floor. Long Otto, in his haste, trod on the dog, which began
barking, a process which it kept up almost without a pause during
the rest of the interview.
"Mr. Wilberfloss," said Psmith in an aside to Bat, "is widely known
as a cat fancier in Brooklyn circles."
"Honest?" said Mr. Jarvis. He tapped Mr. Wilberfloss in friendly
fashion on the chest. "Say," he asked, "did youse ever have a cat
wit one blue and one yellow eye?"
Mr. Wilberfloss side-stepped and turned once more to Psmith, who
was offering B. Henderson Asher a cigarette.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Who am I?" repeated Psmith in an astonished tone.
"Who are you?"
"I am Psmith," said the old Etonian reverently. "There is a
preliminary P before the name. This, however, is silent. Like the
tomb. Compare such words as ptarmigan, psalm, and phthisis."
"These gentlemen tell me you're acting editor. Who appointed you?"
Psmith reflected.
"It is rather a nice point," he said. "It might be claimed that I
appointed myself. You may say, however, that Comrade Windsor
appointed me."
"Ah! And where is Mr. Windsor?"
"In prison," said Psmith sorrowfully.
"In prison!"
Psmith nodded.
"It is too true. Such is the generous impulsiveness of Comrade
Windsor's nature that he hit a policeman, was promptly gathered in,
and is now serving a sentence of thirty days on Blackwell's Island."
Mr. Wilberfloss looked at Mr. Philpotts. Mr. Asher looked at Mr.
Wilberfloss. Mr. Waterman started, and stumbled over a cat.
"I never heard of such a thing," said Mr. Wilberfloss.
A faint, sad smile played across Psmith's face.
"Do you remember, Comrade Waterman--I fancy it was to you that I
made the remark--my commenting at our previous interview on the
rashness of confusing the unusual with the improbable? Here we see
Comrade Wilberfloss, big-brained though he is, falling into error."
"I shall dismiss Mr. Windsor immediately," said the big-brained
one.
"From Blackwell's Island?" said Psmith. "I am sure you will earn
his gratitude if you do. They live on bean soup there. Bean soup
and bread, and not much of either."
He broke off, to turn his attention to Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Waterman,
between whom bad blood seemed to have arisen. Mr. Jarvis, holding a
cat in his arms, was glowering at Mr. Waterman, who had backed away
and seemed nervous.
"What is the trouble, Comrade Jarvis?"
"Dat guy dere wit two left feet," said Bat querulously, "goes and
treads on de kit. I--"
"I assure you it was a pure accident. The animal--"
Mr. Wilberfloss, eyeing Bat and the silent Otto with disgust,
intervened.
"Who are these persons, Mr. Smith?" he inquired.
"Poisson yourself," rejoined Bat, justly incensed. "Who's de
little guy wit de peeled breezer, Mr. Smith?"
Psmith waved his hands.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said, "let us not descend to mere
personalities. I thought I had introduced you. This, Comrade
Jarvis, is Mr. Wilberfloss, the editor of this journal. These,
Comrade Wilberfloss--Zam-buk would put your nose right in a
day--are, respectively, Bat Jarvis and Long Otto, our acting
fighting-editors, vice Kid Brady, absent on unavoidable business."
"Kid Brady !" shrilled Mr. Wilberfloss. "I insist that you give me
a full explanation of this matter. I go away by my doctor's orders
for ten weeks, leaving Mr. Windsor to conduct the paper on certain
well-defined lines. I return yesterday, and, getting into
communication with Mr. Philpotts, what do I find? Why, that in my
absence the paper has been ruined."
"Ruined?" said Psmith. "On the contrary. Examine the returns, and
you will see that the circulation has gone up every week. Cosy
Moments was never so prosperous and flourishing. Comrade Otto, do
you think you could use your personal influence with that dog to
induce it to suspend its barking for a while? It is musical, but
renders conversation difficult."
Long Otto raised a massive boot and aimed it at the animal, which,
dodging with a yelp, cannoned against the second cat and had its
nose scratched. Piercing shrieks cleft the air.
"I demand an explanation," roared Mr. Wilberfloss above the din.
"I think, Comrade Otto," said Psmith, "it would make things a little
easier if you removed that dog."
He opened the door. The dog shot out. They could hear it being
ejected from the outer office by Master Maloney. When there was
silence, Psmith turned courteously to the editor.
"You were saying, Comrade Wilberfloss?"
"Who is this person Brady? With Mr. Philpotts I have been going
carefully over the numbers which have been issued since my
departure--"
"An intellectual treat," murmured Psmith.
"--and in each there is a picture of this young man in a costume
which I will not particularise--"
"There is hardly enough of it to particularise."
"--together with a page of disgusting autobiographical matter."
Psmith held up his hand.
"I protest," he said. "We court criticism, but this is mere abuse.
I appeal to these gentlemen to say whether this, for instance, is
not bright and interesting."
He picked up the current number of Cosy Moments, and turned to the
Kid's page.
"This," he said. "Describing a certain ten-round unpleasantness with
one Mexican Joe. 'Joe comes up for the second round and he gives me
a nasty look, but I thinks of my mother and swats him one in the
lower ribs. He hollers foul, but nix on that. Referee says, "Fight
on." Joe gives me another nasty look. "All right, Kid," he says;
"now I'll knock you up into the gallery." And with that he cuts
loose with a right swing, but I falls into the clinch, and
then---!'"
"Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Wilberfloss.
"Go on, boss," urged Mr. Jarvis approvingly. "It's to de good, dat
stuff."
"There!" said Psmith triumphantly. "You heard? Comrade Jarvis, one
of the most firmly established critics east of Fifth Avenue, stamps
Kid Brady's reminiscences with the hall-mark of his approval."
"I falls fer de Kid every time," assented Mr. Jarvis.
"Assuredly, Comrade Jarvis. You know a good thing when you see one.
Why," he went on warmly, "there is stuff in these reminiscences
which would stir the blood of a jelly-fish. Let me quote you
another passage to show that they are not only enthralling, but
helpful as well. Let me see, where is it? Ah, I have it. 'A bully
good way of putting a guy out of business is this. You don't want
to use it in the ring, because by Queensberry Rules it's a foul;
but you will find it mighty useful if any thick-neck comes up to
you in the street and tries to start anything. It's this way. While
he's setting himself for a punch, just place the tips of the
fingers of your left hand on the right side of his chest. Then
bring down the heel of your left hand. There isn't a guy living
that could stand up against that. The fingers give you a leverage
to beat the band. The guy doubles up, and you upper-cut him with
your right, and out he goes.' Now, I bet you never knew that
before, Comrade Philpotts. Try it on your parishioners."
"Cosy Moments," said Mr. Wilberfloss irately, "is no medium for
exploiting low prize-fighters."
"Low prize-fighters! Comrade Wilberfloss, you have been
misinformed. The Kid is as decent a little chap as you'd meet
anywhere. You do not seem to appreciate the philanthropic motives
of the paper in adopting Comrade Brady's cause. Think of it,
Comrade Wilberfloss. There was that unfortunate stripling with only
two pleasures in life, to love his mother and to knock the heads
off other youths whose weight coincided with his own; and
misfortune, until we took him up, had barred him almost completely
from the second pastime. Our editorial heart was melted. We
adopted Comrade Brady. And look at him now! Matched against Eddie
Wood! And Comrade Waterman will support me in my statement that a
victory over Eddie Wood means that he gets a legitimate claim to
meet Jimmy Garvin for the championship."
"It is abominable," burst forth Mr. Wilberfloss. "It is
disgraceful. I never heard of such a thing. The paper is ruined."
"You keep reverting to that statement, Comrade Wilberfloss. Can
nothing reassure you? The returns are excellent. Prosperity beams
on us like a sun. The proprietor is more than satisfied."
"The proprietor?" gasped Mr. Wilberfloss. "Does he know how you
have treated the paper?"
"He is cognisant of our every move."
"And he approves?"
"He more than approves."
Mr. Wilberfloss snorted.
"I don't believe it," he said.
The assembled ex-contributors backed up this statement with a
united murmur. B. Henderson Asher snorted satirically.
"They don't believe it," sighed Psmith. "Nevertheless, it is
true."
"It is not true," thundered Mr. Wilberfloss, hopping to avoid a
perambulating cat. "Nothing will convince me of it. Mr. Benjamin
White is not a maniac."
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