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Psmith and Mike picked their way through the groups of ragged
children who covered the roadway. There seemed to be thousands of
them.
"Poor kids!" said Mike. "It must be awful living in a hole like
this."
Psmith said nothing. He was looking thoughtful. He glanced up at
the grimy buildings on each side. On the lower floors one could
see into dark, bare rooms. These were the star apartments of the
tenement-houses, for they opened on to the street, and so got a
little light and air. The imagination jibbed at the thought of the
back rooms.
"I wonder who owns these places," said Psmith. "It seems to me
that there's what you might call room for improvement. It wouldn't
be a scaly idea to turn that Cosy Moments search-light we were
talking about on to them."
They walked on a few steps.
"Look here," said Psmith, stopping. "This place makes me sick. I'm
going in to have a look round. I expect some muscular householder
will resent the intrusion and boot us out, but we'll risk it."
Followed by Mike, he turned in at one of the doors. A group of men
leaning against the opposite wall looked at them without curiosity.
Probably they took them for reporters hunting for a story.
Reporters were the only tolerably well-dressed visitors Pleasant
Street ever entertained.
It was almost pitch dark on the stairs. They had to feel their way
up. Most of the doors were shut but one on the second floor was
ajar. Through the opening they had a glimpse of a number of women
sitting round on boxes. The floor was covered with little heaps of
linen. All the women were sewing. Mike, stumbling in the darkness,
almost fell against the door. None of the women looked up at the
noise. Time was evidently money in Pleasant Street.
On the fourth floor there was an open door. The room was empty. It
was a good representative Pleasant Street back room. The architect
in this case had given rein to a passion for originality. He had
constructed the room without a window of any sort whatsoever. There
was a square opening in the door. Through this, it was to be
presumed, the entire stock of air used by the occupants was
supposed to come.
They stumbled downstairs again and out into the street. By contrast
with the conditions indoors the street seemed spacious and breezy.
"This," said Psmith, as they walked on, "is where Cosy Moments gets
busy at a singularly early date."
"What are you going to do?" asked Mike.
"I propose, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith, "if Comrade Windsor is
agreeable, to make things as warm for the owner of this place as I
jolly well know how. What he wants, of course," he proceeded in the
tone of a family doctor prescribing for a patient, "is
disembowelling. I fancy, however, that a mawkishly sentimental
legislature will prevent our performing that national service. We
must endeavour to do what we can by means of kindly criticism in
the paper. And now, having settled that important point, let us try
and get out of this place of wrath, and find Fourth Avenue."
CHAPTER VII
VISITORS AT THE OFFICE
ON the following morning Mike had to leave with the team for
Philadelphia. Psmith came down to the ferry to see him off, and
hung about moodily until the time of departure.
"It is saddening me to a great extent, Comrade Jackson," he said,
"this perpetual parting of the ways. When I think of the happy
moments we have spent hand-in-hand across the seas, it fills me
with a certain melancholy to have you flitting off in this manner
without me. Yet there is another side to the picture. To me there
is something singularly impressive in our unhesitating reply to the
calls of Duty. Your Duty summons you to Philadelphia, to knock the
cover off the local bowling. Mine retains me here, to play my part
in the great work of making New York sit up. By the time you
return, with a century or two, I trust, in your bag, the good work
should, I fancy, be getting something of a move on. I will complete
the arrangements with regard to the flat."
After leaving Pleasant Street they had found Fourth Avenue by a
devious route, and had opened negotiations for a large flat near
Thirtieth Street. It was immediately above a saloon, which was
something of a drawback, but the landlord had assured them that the
voices of the revellers did not penetrate to it.
* * *
When the ferry-boat had borne Mike off across the river, Psmith
turned to stroll to the office of Cosy Moments. The day was fine,
and on the whole, despite Mike's desertion, he felt pleased with
life. Psmith's was a nature which required a certain amount of
stimulus in the way of gentle excitement; and it seemed to him that
the conduct of the remodelled Cosy Moments might supply this. He
liked Billy Windsor, and looked forward to a not unenjoyable time
till Mike should return.
The offices of Cosy Moments were in a large bui1ding in the street
off Madison Avenue. They consisted of a sort of outer lair, where
Pugsy Maloney spent his time reading tales of life in the prairies
and heading off undesirable visitors; a small room, which would
have belonged to the stenographer if Cosy Moments had possessed
one; and a larger room beyond, which was the editorial sanctum.
As Psmith passed through the front door, Pugsy Maloney rose.
"Say!" said Master Maloney.
"Say on, Comrade Maloney," said Psmith.
"Dey're in dere."
"Who, precisely?"
"A whole bunch of dem."
Psmith inspected Master Maloney through his eye-glass. "Can you
give me any particulars?" he asked patiently. "You are
well-meaning, but vague, Comrade Maloney. Who are in there?"
"De whole bunch of dem. Dere's Mr. Asher and the Rev. Philpotts and
a gazebo what calls himself Waterman and about 'steen more of dem."
A faint smile appeared upon Psmith's face.
"And is Comrade Windsor in there, too, in the middle of them?"
"Nope. Mr. Windsor's out to lunch."
"Comrade Windsor knows his business. Why did you let them in?"
"Sure, dey just butted in," said Master Maloney complainingly. "I
was sittin' here, readin' me book, when de foist of de guys blew
in. 'Boy,' says he, 'is de editor in?' 'Nope,' I says. 'I'll go in
an' wait,' says he. 'Nuttin' doin',' says I. 'Nix on de goin' in
act.' I might as well have saved me breat'. In he butts, and he's
in der now. Well, in about t'ree minutes along comes another
gazebo. 'Boy,' says he, 'is de editor in?' 'Nope,' I says. 'I'll
wait,' says he lightin' out for de door. Wit dat I sees de
proposition's too fierce for muh. I can't keep dese big husky guys
out if dey's for buttin' in. So when de rest of de bunch comes
along, I don't try to give dem de t'run down. I says, 'Well,
gents,' I says, 'it's up to youse. De editor ain't in, but if youse
wants to join de giddy t'rong, push t'roo inter de inner room. I
can't be boddered.'"
"And what more could you have said?" agreed Psmith approvingly.
"Tell me, Comrade Maloney, what was the general average aspect of
these determined spirits?"
"Huh?"
"Did they seem to you to be gay, lighthearted? Did they carol
snatches of song as they went? Or did they appear to be looking
for some one with a hatchet?"
"Dey was hoppin'-mad, de whole bunch of dem."
"As I suspected. But we must not repine, Comrade Maloney. These
trifling contretemps are the penalties we pay for our high
journalistic aims. I will interview these merchants. I fancy that
with the aid of the Diplomatic Smile and the Honeyed Word I may
manage to pull through. It is as well, perhaps, that Comrade
Windsor is out. The situation calls for the handling of a man of
delicate culture and nice tact. Comrade Windsor would probably have
endeavoured to clear the room with a chair. If he should arrive
during the seance, Comrade Maloney, be so good as to inform him of
the state of affairs, and tell him not to come in. Give him my
compliments, and tell him to go out and watch the snowdrops growing
in Madison Square Garden."
"Sure," said Master Maloney.
Then Psmith, having smoothed the nap of his hat and flicked a speck
of dust from his coat-sleeve, walked to the door of the inner room
and went in.
CHAPTER VIII
THE HONEYED WORD
MASTER MALONEY'S statement that "about 'steen visitors" had arrived
in addition to Messrs. Asher, Waterman, and the Rev. Philpotts
proved to have been due to a great extent to a somewhat feverish
imagination. There were only five men in the room.
As Psmith entered, every eye was turned upon him. To an outside
spectator he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressed
Daniel introduced into a den of singularly irritable lions. Five
pairs of eyes were smouldering with a long-nursed resentment. Five
brows were corrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was the
simple majesty of Psmith's demeanour that for a moment there was
dead silence. Not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped in
thought, to the editorial chair. Stillness brooded over the room as
he carefully dusted that piece of furniture, and, having done so to
his satisfaction, hitched up the knees of his trousers and sank
gracefully into a sitting position.
This accomplished, he looked up and started. He gazed round the
room.
"Ha! I am observed!" he murmured.
The words broke the spell. Instantly, the five visitors burst
simultaneously into speech.
"Are you the acting editor of this paper?"
"I wish to have a word with you, sir."
"Mr. Windsor, I presume?"
"Pardon me!"
"I should like a few moments' conversation."
The start was good and even; but the gentleman who said "Pardon
me!" necessarily finished first with the rest nowhere.
Psmith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gaze
through his eye-glass.
"Are you Mr. Windsor, sir, may I ask?" inquired the favoured one.
The others paused for the reply.
"Alas! no," said Psmith with manly regret.
"Then who are you?"
"I am Psmith."
There was a pause.
"Where is Mr. Windsor?"
"He is, I fancy, champing about forty cents' worth of lunch at some
neighbouring hostelry."
"When will he return?
"Anon. But how much anon I fear I cannot say."
The visitors looked at each other.
"This is exceedingly annoying," said the man who had said "Pardon
me!" "I came for the express purpose of seeing Mr. Windsor."
"So did I," chimed in the rest. "Same here. So did I."
Psmith bowed courteously.
"Comrade Windsor's loss is my gain. Is there anything I can do for
you?"
"Are you on the editorial staff of this paper?"
"I am acting sub-editor. The work is not light," added Psmith
gratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round, 'Can Psmith get
through it all? Will his strength support his unquenchable spirit?'
But I stagger on. I do not repine."
"Then maybe you can tell me what all this means?" said a small
round gentleman who so far had done only chorus work.
"If it is in my power to do so, it shall be done, Comrade--I have
not the pleasure of your name."
"My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whose
name you doubtless know."
"Correct me if I am wrong," said Psmith, "but I should say it,
also, was Waterman."
"Luella Granville Waterman, sir," said the little man proudly.
Psmith removed his eye-glass, polished it, and replaced it in his
eye. He felt that he must run no risk of not seeing clearly the
husband of one who, in his opinion, stood alone in literary circles
as a purveyor of sheer bilge.
"My wife," continued the little man, producing an envelope and
handing it to Psmith, "has received this extraordinary
communication from a man signing himself W. Windsor. We are both at
a loss to make head or tail of it."
Psmith was reading the letter.
"It seems reasonably clear to me," he said.
"It is an outrage. My wife has been a contributor to this journal
from its foundation. Her work has given every satisfaction to Mr.
Wilberfloss. And now, without the slightest warning, comes this
peremptory dismissal from W. Windsor. Who is W. Windsor? Where is
Mr. Wilberfloss?"
The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they all
wanted to know: Who was W. Windsor? Where was Mr. Wilberfloss?
"I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts, sir," said a cadaverous-
looking man with pale blue eyes and a melancholy face. "I have
contributed 'Moments of Meditation' to this journal for a very
considerable period of time."
"I have read your page with the keenest interest," said Psmith. "I
may be wrong, but yours seems to me work which the world will not
willingly let die."
The Reverend Edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile.
"And yet," continued Psmith, "I gather that Comrade Windsor, on the
other hand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease. It is these
strange contradictions, these clashings of personal taste, which
make up what we call life. Here we have, on the one hand--"
A man with a face like a walnut, who had hitherto lurked almost
unseen behind a stout person in a serge suit, bobbed into the open,
and spoke his piece.
"Where's this fellow Windsor? W. Windsor. That's the man we want
to see. I've been working for this paper without a break, except
when I had the mumps, for four years, and I've reason to know that
my page was as widely read and appreciated as any in New York. And
now up comes this Windsor fellow, if you please, and tells me in so
many words the paper's got no use for me."
"These are life's tragedies," murmured Psmith.
"What's he mean by it? That's what I want to know. And that's what
these gentlemen want to know--See here--"
"I am addressing--?" said Psmith.
"Asher's my name. B. Henderson Asher. I write 'Moments of Mirth.'"
A look almost of excitement came into Psmith's face, such a look as
a visitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some
great national monument. That he should be privileged to look upon
the author of "Moments of Mirth" in the flesh, face to face, was
almost too much.
"Comrade Asher," he said reverently, "may I shake your hand?"
The other extended his hand with some suspicion.
"Your 'Moments of Mirth,'" said Psmith, shaking it, "have
frequently reconciled me to the toothache."
He reseated himself.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a painful case. The circumstances,
as you will readily admit when you have heard all, are peculiar.
You have asked me where Mr. Wilberfloss is. I do not know."
"You don't know!" exclaimed Mr. Waterman.
"I don't know. You don't know. They," said Psmith, indicating the
rest with a wave of the hand, "don't know. Nobody knows. His
locality is as hard to ascertain as that of a black cat in a
coal-cellar on a moonless night. Shortly before I joined this
journal, Mr. Wilberfloss, by his doctor's orders, started out on a
holiday, leaving no address. No letters were to be forwarded. He
was to enjoy complete rest. Where is he now? Who shall say?
Possibly legging it down some rugged slope in the Rockies, with two
bears and a wild cat in earnest pursuit. Possibly in the midst of
some Florida everglade, making a noise like a piece of meat in
order to snare crocodiles. Possibly in Canada, baiting moose-traps.
We have no data."
Silent consternation prevailed among the audience. Finally the Rev.
Edwin T. Philpotts was struck with an idea.
"Where is Mr. White?" he asked.
The point was well received.
"Yes, where's Mr. Benjamin White?" chorused the rest.
Psmith shook his head.
"In Europe. I cannot say more."
The audience's consternation deepened.
"Then, do you mean to say," demanded Mr. Asher, "that this fellow
Windsor's the boss here, that what he says goes?"
Psmith bowed.
"With your customary clear-headedness, Comrade Asher, you have got
home on the bull's-eye first pop. Comrade Windsor is indeed the
boss. A man of intensely masterful character, he will brook no
opposition. I am powerless to sway him. Suggestions from myself as
to the conduct of the paper would infuriate him. He believes that
radical changes are necessary in the programme of Cosy Moments, and
he means to put them through if it snows. Doubtless he would gladly
consider your work if it fitted in with his ideas. A snappy account
of a glove-fight, a spine-shaking word-picture of a railway smash,
or something on those lines, would be welcomed. But--"
"I have never heard of such a thing," said Mr. Waterman indignantly.
Psmith sighed.
"Some time ago," he said, "--how long it seems!--I remember saying
to a young friend of mine of the name of Spiller, 'Comrade Spiller,
never confuse the unusual with the impossible.' It is my guiding
rule in life. It is unusual for the substitute-editor of a weekly
paper to do a Captain Kidd act and take entire command of the
journal on his own account; but is it impossible? Alas no. Comrade
Windsor has done it. That is where you, Comrade Asher, and you,
gentlemen, have landed yourselves squarely in the broth. You have
confused the unusual with the impossible."
"But what is to be done?" cried Mr. Asher.
"I fear that there is nothing to be done, except wait. The present
regime is but an experiment. It may be that when Comrade
Wilberfloss, having dodged the bears and eluded the wild cat,
returns to his post at the helm of this journal, he may decide not
to continue on the lines at present mapped out. He should be back
in about ten weeks."
"Ten weeks!"
"I fancy that was to be the duration of his holiday. Till then my
advice to you gentlemen is to wait. You may rely on me to keep a
watchful eye upon your interests. When your thoughts tend to take a
gloomy turn, say to yourselves, 'All is well. Psmith is keeping a
watchful eye upon our interests.'"
"All the same, I should like to see this W. Windsor," said Mr.
Asher.
Psmith shook his head.
"I shouldn't," he said. "I speak in your best interests. Comrade
Windsor is a man of the fiercest passions. He cannot brook
interference. Were you to question the wisdom of his plans, there
is no knowing what might not happen. He would be the first to
regret any violent action, when once he had cooled off, but would
that be any consolation to his victim? I think not. Of course, if
you wish it, I could arrange a meeting--"
Mr. Asher said no, he thought it didn't matter.
"I guess I can wait," he said.
"That," said Psmith approvingly, "is the right spirit. Wait. That
is the watch-word. And now," he added, rising, "I wonder if a bit
of lunch somewhere might not be a good thing? We have had an
interesting but fatiguing little chat. Our tissues require
restoring. If you gentlemen would care to join me--"
Ten minutes later the company was seated in complete harmony round
a table at the Knickerbocker. Psmith, with the dignified bonhomie
of a seigneur of the old school, was ordering the wine; while B.
Henderson Asher, brimming over with good-humour, was relating to an
attentive circle an anecdote which should have appeared in his next
instalment of "Moments of Mirth."
CHAPTER IX
FULL STEAM AHEAD
WHEN Psmith returned to the office, he found Billy Windsor in the
doorway, just parting from a thick-set young man, who seemed to be
expressing his gratitude to the editor for some good turn. He was
shaking him warmly by the hand.
Psmith stood aside to let him pass.
"An old college chum, Comrade Windsor?" he asked.
"That was Kid Brady."
"The name is unfamiliar to me. Another contributor?"
"He's from my part of the country--Wyoming. He wants to fight any
one in the world at a hundred and thirty-three pounds."
"We all have our hobbies. Comrade Brady appears to have selected a
somewhat exciting one. He would find stamp-collecting less
exacting."
"It hasn't given him much excitement so far, poor chap," said Billy
Windsor. "He's in the championship class, and here he has been
pottering about New York for a month without being able to get a
fight. It's always the way in this rotten East," continued Billy,
warming up as was his custom when discussing a case of oppression
and injustice. "It's all graft here. You've got to let half a dozen
brutes dip into every dollar you earn, or you don't get a chance.
If the kid had a manager, he'd get all the fights he wanted. And
the manager would get nearly all the money. I've told him that we
will back him up."
"You have hit it, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith with enthusiasm.
"Cosy Moments shall be Comrade Brady's manager. We will give him a
much-needed boost up in our columns. A sporting section is what the
paper requires more than anything."
"If things go on as they've started, what it will require still
more will be a fighting-editor. Pugsy tells me you had visitors
while I was out."
"A few," said Psmith. "One or two very entertaining fellows.
Comrades Asher, Philpotts, and others. I have just been giving them
a bite of lunch at the Knickerbocker."
"Lunch!"
"A most pleasant little lunch. We are now as brothers. I fear I
have made you perhaps a shade unpopular with our late contributors;
but these things must be. We must clench our teeth and face them
manfully. If I were you, I think I should not drop in at the house
of Comrade Asher and the rest to take pot-luck for some little time
to come. In order to soothe the squad I was compelled to curse you
to some extent."
"Don't mind me."
"I think I may say I didn't."
"Say, look here, you must charge up the price of that lunch to the
office. Necessary expenses, you know."
"I could not dream of doing such a thing, Comrade Windsor. The
whole affair was a great treat to me. I have few pleasures. Comrade
Asher alone was worth the money. I found his society intensely
interesting. I have always believed in the Darwinian theory.
Comrade Asher confirmed my views."
They went into the inner office. Psmith removed his hat and coat.
"And now once more to work," he said. "Psmith the flaneur of Fifth
Avenue ceases to exist. In his place we find Psmith the hard-headed
sub-editor. Be so good as to indicate a job of work for me,
Comrade Windsor. I am champing at my bit."
Billy Windsor sat down, and lit his pipe.
"What we want most," he said thoughtfully, "is some big topic.
That's the only way to get a paper going. Look at Everybody's
Magazine. They didn't amount to a row of beans till Lawson started
his 'Frenzied Finance' articles. Directly they began, the whole
country was squealing for copies. Everybody's put up their price
from ten to fifteen cents, and now they lead the field."
"The country must squeal for Cosy Moments," said Psmith firmly. "I
fancy I have a scheme which may not prove wholly scaly. Wandering
yesterday with Comrade Jackson in a search for Fourth Avenue, I
happened upon a spot called Pleasant Street. Do you know it?"
Billy Windsor nodded.
"I went down there once or twice when I was a reporter. It's a
beastly place."
"It is a singularly beastly place. We went into one of the houses."
"They're pretty bad."
"Who owns them?"
"I don't know. Probably some millionaire. Those tenement houses
are about as paying an investment as you can have."
"Hasn't anybody ever tried to do anything about them?"
"Not so far as I know. It's pretty difficult to get at these
fellows, you see. But they're fierce, aren't they, those houses!"
"What," asked Psmith, "is the precise difficulty of getting at
these merchants?"
"Well, it's this way. There are all sorts of laws about the places,
but any one who wants can get round them as easy as falling off a
log. The law says a tenement house is a building occupied by more
than two families. Well, when there's a fuss, all the man has to do
is to clear out all the families but two. Then, when the inspector
fellow comes along, and says, let's say, 'Where's your running
water on each floor? That's what the law says you've got to have,
and here are these people having to go downstairs and out of doors
to fetch their water supplies,' the landlord simply replies,
'Nothing doing. This isn't a tenement house at all. There are only
two families here.' And when the fuss has blown over, back come the
rest of the crowd, and things go on the same as before."
"I see," said Psmith. "A very cheery scheme."
"Then there's another thing. You can't get hold of the man who's
really responsible, unless you're prepared to spend thousands
ferreting out evidence. The land belongs in the first place to some
corporation or other. They lease it to a lessee. When there's a
fuss, they say they aren't responsible, it's up to the lessee. And
he lies so low that you can't find out who he is. It's all just
like the East. Everything in the East is as crooked as Pearl
Street. If you want a square deal, you've got to come out Wyoming
way."
"The main problem, then," said Psmith, "appears to be the discovery
of the lessee, lad? Surely a powerful organ like Cosy Moments, with
its vast ramifications, could bring off a thing like that?"
"I doubt it. We'll try, anyway. There's no knowing but what we may
have luck."
"Precisely," said Psmith. "Full steam ahead, and trust to luck. The
chances are that, if we go on long enough, we shall eventually
arrive somewhere. After all, Columbus didn't know that America
existed when he set out. All he knew was some highly interesting
fact about an egg. What that was, I do not at the moment recall,
but it bucked Columbus up like a tonic. It made him fizz ahead like
a two-year-old. The facts which will nerve us to effort are two. In
the first place, we know that there must be some one at the bottom
of the business. Secondly, as there appears to be no law of libel
whatsoever in this great and free country, we shall be enabled to
haul up our slacks with a considerable absence of restraint."
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