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Pelham Grenville Wodehouse >> Psmith, Journalist
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The best method of getting to the Highfield is by the Subway. To
see the Subway in its most characteristic mood one must travel on
it during the rush-hour, when its patrons are packed into the
carriages in one solid jam by muscular guards and policemen,
shoving in a manner reminiscent of a Rugby football scrum. When
Psmith and Billy entered it on the Friday evening, it was
comparatively empty. All the seats were occupied, but only a few of
the straps and hardly any of the space reserved by law for the
conductor alone.
Conversation on the Subway is impossible. The ingenious gentlemen
who constructed it started with the object of making it noisy. Not
ordinarily noisy, like a ton of coal falling on to a sheet of tin,
but really noisy. So they fashioned the pillars of thin steel, and
the sleepers of thin wood, and loosened all the nuts, and now a
Subway train in motion suggests a prolonged dynamite explosion
blended with the voice of some great cataract.
Psmith, forced into temporary silence by this combination of
noises, started to make up for lost time on arriving in the street
once more.
"A thoroughly unpleasant neighbourhood," he said, critically
surveying the dark streets. "I fear me, Comrade Windsor, that we
have been somewhat rash in venturing as far into the middle west as
this. If ever there was a blighted locality where low-browed
desperadoes might be expected to spring with whoops of joy from
every corner, this blighted locality is that blighted locality.
But we must carry on. In which direction, should you say, does this
arena lie?"
It had begun to rain as they left Billy's lodgings. Psmith turned
up the collar of his Burberry.
"We suffer much in the cause of Literature," he said. "Let us
inquire of this genial soul if he knows where the Highfield is."
The pedestrian referred to proved to be going there himself. They
went on together, Psmith courteously offering views on the weather
and forecasts of the success of Kid Brady in the approaching
contest.
Rattling on, he was alluding to the prominent part Cosy Moments had
played in the affair, when a rough thrust from Windsor's elbow
brought home to him his indiscretion.
He stopped suddenly, wishing he had not said as much. Their
connection with that militant journal was not a thing even to be
suggested to casual acquaintances, especially in such a
particularly ill-lighted neighbourhood as that through which they
were now passing.
Their companion, however, who seemed to be a man of small speech,
made no comment. Psmith deftly turned the conversation back to the
subject of the weather, and was deep in a comparison of the
respective climates of England and the United States, when they
turned a corner and found themselves opposite a gloomy, barn-like
building, over the door of which it was just possible to decipher
in the darkness the words "Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club."
The tickets which Billy Windsor had obtained from his newspaper
friend were for one of the boxes. These proved to be sort of
sheep-pens of unpolished wood, each with four hard chairs in it.
The interior of the Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club was
severely free from anything in the shape of luxury and ornament.
Along the four walls were raised benches in tiers. On these were
seated as tough-looking a collection of citizens as one might wish
to see. On chairs at the ring-side were the reporters, with tickers
at their sides, by means of which they tapped details of each round
through to their down-town offices, where write-up reporters were
waiting to read off and elaborate the messages. In the centre of
the room, brilliantly lighted by half a dozen electric chandeliers,
was the ring.
There were preliminary bouts before the main event. A burly
gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered the ring, followed by two slim
youths in fighting costume and a massive person in a red jersey,
blue serge trousers, and yellow braces, who chewed gum with an
abstracted air throughout the proceedings.
The burly gentleman gave tongue in a voice that cleft the air like
a cannon-ball.
"Ex-hib-it-i-on four-round bout between Patsy Milligan and Tommy
Goodley, members of this club. Patsy on my right, Tommy on my left.
Gentlemen will kindly stop smokin'."
The audience did nothing of the sort. Possibly they did not apply
the description to themselves. Possibly they considered the appeal
a mere formula. Somewhere in the background a gong sounded, and
Patsy, from the right, stepped briskly forward to meet Tommy,
approaching from the left.
The contest was short but energetic. At intervals the combatants
would cling affectionately to one another, and on these occasions
the red-jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the same
air of being lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass by
the simple method of ploughing his way between the pair. Towards
the end of the first round Thomas, eluding a left swing, put
Patrick neatly to the floor, where the latter remained for the
necessary ten seconds.
The remaining preliminaries proved disappointing. So much so that
in the last of the series a soured sportsman on one of the benches
near the roof began in satirical mood to whistle the "Merry Widow
Waltz." It was here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first and
last time came out of his meditative trance. He leaned over the
ropes, and spoke--without heat, but firmly.
"If that guy whistling back up yonder thinks he can do better than
these boys, he can come right down into the ring."
The whistling ceased.
There was a distinct air of relief when the last preliminary was
finished and preparations for the main bout began. It did not
commence at once. There were formalities to be gone through,
introductions and the like. The burly gentleman reappeared from
nowhere, ushering into the ring a sheepishly-grinning youth in a
flannel suit.
"In-ter-doo-cin' Young Leary," he bellowed impressively, "a noo
member of this chub, who will box some good boy here in September."
He walked to the other side of the ring and repeated the remark. A
raucous welcome was accorded to the new member.
Two other notable performers were introduced in a similar manner,
and then the building became suddenly full of noise, for a tall
youth in a bath-robe, attended by a little army of assistants, had
entered the ring. One of the army carried a bright green bucket, on
which were painted in white letters the words "Cyclone Al.
Wolmann." A moment later there was another, though a far lesser,
uproar, as Kid Brady, his pleasant face wearing a self-conscious
smirk, ducked under the ropes and sat down in the opposite corner.
"Ex-hib-it-i-on ten-round bout," thundered the burly gentleman,
"between Cyclone. Al. Wolmann--"
Loud applause. Mr. Wolmann was one of the famous, a fighter with a
reputation from New York to San Francisco. He was generally
considered the most likely man to give the hitherto invincible
Jimmy Garvin a hard battle for the light-weight championship.
"Oh, you Al.!" roared the crowd.
Mr. Wolmann bowed benevolently.
"--and Kid Brady, members of this--"
There was noticeably less applause for the Kid. He was an unknown.
A few of those present had heard of his victories in the West, but
these were but a small section of the crowd. When the faint
applause had ceased, Psmith rose to his feet.
"Oh, you Kid!" he observed encouragingly.
"I should not like Comrade Brady," he said, reseating himself, "to
think that he has no friend but his poor old mother, as, you will
recollect, occurred on a previous occasion."
The burly gentleman, followed by the two armies of assistants,
dropped down from the ring, and the gong sounded.
Mr. Wolmann sprang from his corner as if somebody had touched a
spring. He seemed to be of the opinion that if you are a cyclone,
it is never too soon to begin behaving like one. He danced round
the Kid with an india-rubber agility. The Cosy Moments
representative exhibited more stolidity. Except for the fact that
he was in fighting attitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in
the neighbourhood of his stocky chest, and the other pawing the air
on a line with his square jaw, one would have said that he did not
realise the position of affairs. He wore the friendly smile of the
good-natured guest who is led forward by his hostess to join in
some round game.
Suddenly his opponent's long left shot out. The Kid, who had been
strolling forward, received it under the chin, and continued to
stroll forward as if nothing of note had happened. He gave the
impression of being aware that Mr. Wolmann had committed a breach
of good taste and of being resolved to pass it off with ready tact.
The Cyclone, having executed a backward leap, a forward leap, and a
feint, landed heavily with both hands. The Kid's genial smile did
not even quiver, but he continued to move forward. His opponent's
left flashed out again, but this time, instead of ignoring the
matter, the Kid replied with a heavy right swing; and Mr. Wolmann,
leaping back, found himself against the ropes. By the time he had
got out of that uncongenial position, two more of the Kid's swings
had found their mark. Mr. Wolmann, somewhat perturbed, scuttered
out into the middle of the ring, the Kid following in his
self-contained, solid way.
The Cyclone now became still more cyclonic. He had a left arm
which seemed to open out in joints like a telescope. Several times
when the Kid appeared well out of distance there was a thud as a
brown glove ripped in over his guard and jerked his head back. But
always he kept boring in, delivering an occasional right to the
body with the pleased smile of an infant destroying a Noah's Ark
with a tack-hammer. Despite these efforts, however, he was plainly
getting all the worst of it. Energetic Mr. Wolmann, relying on his
long left, was putting in three blows to his one. When the gong
sounded, ending the first round, the house was practically solid
for the Cyclone. Whoops and yells rose from everywhere. The
building rang with shouts of, "Oh, you Al.!"
Psmith turned sadly to Billy.
"It seems to me, Comrade Windsor," he said, "that this merry
meeting looks like doing Comrade Brady no good. I should not be
surprised at any moment to see his head bounce off on to the
floor."
"Wait," said Billy. "He'll win yet."
"You think so?"
"Sure. He comes from Wyoming," said Billy with simple confidence.
Rounds two and three were a repetition of round one. The Cyclone
raged almost unchecked about the ring. In one lightning rally in
the third he brought his right across squarely on to the Kid's jaw.
It was a blow which should have knocked any boxer out. The Kid
merely staggered slightly and returned to business, still smiling.
"See!" roared Billy enthusiastically in Psmith's ear, above the
uproar. "He doesn't mind it! He likes it! He comes from Wyoming!"
With the opening of round four there came a subtle change. The
Cyclone's fury was expending itself. That long left shot out less
sharply. Instead of being knocked back by it, the Cosy Moments
champion now took the hits in his stride, and came shuffling in
with his damaging body-blows. There were cheers and "Oh, you
Al.'s!" at the sound of the gong, but there was an appealing note
in them this time. The gallant sportsmen whose connection with
boxing was confined to watching other men fight, and betting on
what they considered a certainty, and who would have expired
promptly if any one had tapped them sharply on their well-filled
waistcoats, were beginning to fear that they might lose their money
after all.
In the fifth round the thing became a certainty. Like the month of
March, the Cyclone, who had come in like a lion, was going out like
a lamb. A slight decrease in the pleasantness of the Kid's smile
was noticeable. His expression began to resemble more nearly the
gloomy importance of the Cosy Moments photographs. Yells of agony
from panic-stricken speculators around the ring began to smite the
rafters. The Cyclone, now but a gentle breeze, clutched repeatedly,
hanging on like a leech till removed by the red-jerseyed referee.
Suddenly a grisly silence fell upon the house. It was broken by a
cow-boy yell from Billy Windsor. For the Kid, battered, but
obviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring, while on
the ropes the Cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowly
to the floor.
"Cosy Moments wins," said Psmith. "An omen, I fancy, Comrade
Windsor."
CHAPTER XV
AN ADDITION TO THE STAFP
PENETRATING into the Kid's dressing-room some moments later, the
editorial staff found the winner of the ten-round exhibition bout
between members of the club seated on a chair, having his right leg
rubbed by a shock-headed man in a sweater, who had been one of his
seconds during the conflict. The Kid beamed as they entered.
"Gents," he said, "come right in. Mighty glad to see you."
"It is a relief to me, Comrade Brady," said Psmith, "to find that
you can see us. I had expected to find that Comrade Wolmann's
purposeful buffs had completely closed your star-likes."
"Sure, I never felt them. He's a good quick boy, is Al., but,"
continued the Kid with powerful imagery, "he couldn't hit a hole in
a block of ice-cream, not if he was to use a hammer."
"And yet at one period in the proceedings, Comrade Brady," said
Psmith, "I fancied that your head would come unglued at the neck.
But the fear was merely transient. When you began to administer
those--am I correct in saying?--half-scissor hooks to the body,
why, then I felt like some watcher of the skies when a new planet
swims into his ken; or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he
stared at the Pacific."
The Kid blinked.
"How's that?" he inquired.
"And why did I feel like that, Comrade Brady? I will tell you.
Because my faith in you was justified. Because there before me
stood the ideal fighting-editor of Cosy Moments. It is not a post
that any weakling can fill. There charm of manner cannot qualify a
man for the position. No one can hold down the job simply by having
a kind heart or being good at farmyard imitations. No. We want a
man of thews and sinews, a man who would rather be hit on the head
with a half-brick than not. And you, Comrade Brady, are such a
man."
The Kid turned appealingly to Billy.
"Say, this gets past me, Mr. Windsor. Put me wise."
"Can we have a couple of words with you alone, Kid?" said Billy.
"We want to talk over something with you."
"Sure. Sit down, gents. Jack'll be through in a minute."
Jack, who during this conversation had been concentrating himself
on his subject's left leg, now announced that he guessed that would
about do, and having advised the Kid not to stop and pick daisies,
but to get into his clothes at once before he caught a chill, bade
the company good night and retired.
Billy shut the door.
"Kid," he said, "you know those articles about the tenements we've
been having in the paper?"
"Sure. I read 'em. They're to the good."
Psmith bowed.
"You stimulate us, Comrade Brady. This is praise from Sir Hubert
Stanley."
"It was about time some strong josher came and put it across to
'em," added the Kid.
"So we thought. Comrade Parker, however, totally disagreed with
us."
"Parker?"
"That's what I'm coming to," said Billy. "The day before yesterday
a man named Parker called at the office and tried to buy us off."
Billy's voice grew indignant at the recollection.
"You gave him the hook, I guess?" queried the interested Kid.
"To such an extent, Comrade Brady," said Psmith, "that he left
breathing threatenings and slaughter. And it is for that reason
that we have ventured to call upon you."
"It's this way," said Billy. "We're pretty sure by this time that
whoever the man is this fellow Parker's working for has put one of
the gangs on to us."
"You don't say!" exclaimed the Kid. "Gum! Mr. Windsor, they're
tough propositions, those gangs."
"We've been followed in the streets, and once they put up a bluff
to get us where they could do us in. So we've come along to you. We
can look after ourselves out of the office, you see, but what we
want is some one to help in case they try to rush us there."
"In brief, a fighting-editor," said Psmith. "At all costs we must
have privacy. No writer can prune and polish his sentences to his
satisfaction if he is compelled constantly to break off in order to
eject boisterous hooligans. We therefore offer you the job of
sitting in the outer room and intercepting these bravoes before
they can reach us. The salary we leave to you. There are doubloons
and to spare in the old oak chest. Take what you need and put the
rest--if any--back. How does the offer strike you, Comrade Brady?"
"We don't want to get you in under false pretences, Kid," said
Billy. "Of course, they may not come anywhere near the office. But
still, if they did, there would be something doing. What do you
feel about it?"
"Gents," said the Kid, "it's this way."
He stepped into his coat, and resumed.
"Now that I've made good by getting the decision over Al., they'll
be giving me a chance of a big fight. Maybe with Jimmy Garvin.
Well, if that happens, see what I mean? I'll have to be going away
somewhere and getting into training. I shouldn't be able to come
and sit with you. But, if you gents feel like it, I'd be mighty
glad to come in till I'm wanted to go into training-camp."
"Great," said Billy; "that would suit us all the way up. If you'd
do that, Kid, we'd be tickled to death."
"And touching salary--" put in Psmith.
"Shucks!" said the Kid with emphasis. "Nix on the salary thing. I
wouldn't take a dime. If it hadn't a-been for you gents, I'd have
been waiting still for a chance of lining up in the championship
class. That's good enough for me. Any old thing you gents want me
to do, I'll do it. And glad, too."
"Comrade Brady," said Psmith warmly, "you are, if I may say so, the
goods. You are, beyond a doubt, supremely the stuff. We three,
then, hand-in-hand, will face the foe; and if the foe has good,
sound sense, he will keep right away. You appear to be ready. Shall
we meander forth?"
The building was empty and the lights were out when they emerged
from the dressing-room. They had to grope their way in darkness. It
was still raining when they reached the street, and the only signs
of life were a moist policeman and the distant glare of
public-house lights down the road.
They turned off to the left, and, after walking some hundred yards,
found themselves in a blind alley.
"Hullo!" said Billy. "Where have we come to?"
Psmith sighed.
"In my trusting way," he said, "I had imagined that either you or
Comrade Brady was in charge of this expedition and taking me by a
known route to the nearest Subway station. I did not think to ask.
I placed myself, without hesitation, wholly in your hands."
"I thought the Kid knew the way," said Billy.
"I was just taggin' along with you gents," protested the
light-weight, "I thought you was taking me right. This is the first
time I been up here."
"Next time we three go on a little jaunt anywhere," said Psmith
resignedly, "it would be as well to take a map and a corps of
guides with us. Otherwise we shall start for Broadway and finish
up at Minneapolis."
They emerged from the blind alley and stood in the dark street,
looking doubtfully up and down it.
"Aha!" said Psmith suddenly, "I perceive a native. Several natives,
in fact. Quite a little covey of them. We will put our case before
them, concealing nothing, and rely on their advice to take us to
our goal."
A little knot of men was approaching from the left. In the darkness
it was impossible to say how many of them there were. Psmith
stepped forward, the Kid at his side.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to the leader, "but if you can spare me a
moment of your valuable time--"
There was a sudden shuffle of feet on the pavement, a quick
movement on the part of the Kid, a chunky sound as of wood striking
wood, and the man Psmith had been addressing fell to the ground in
a heap.
As he fell, something dropped from his hand on to the pavement with
a bump and a rattle. Stooping swiftly, the Kid picked it up, and
handed it to Psmith. His fingers closed upon it. It was a short,
wicked-looking little bludgeon, the black-jack of the New York
tough.
"Get busy," advised the Kid briefly.
CHAPTER XVI
THE FIRST BATTLE
THE promptitude and despatch with which the Kid had attended to the
gentleman with the black-jack had not been without its effect on
the followers of the stricken one. Physical courage is not an
outstanding quality of the New York hooligan. His personal
preference is for retreat when it is a question of unpleasantness
with a stranger. And, in any case, even when warring among
themselves, the gangs exhibit a lively distaste for the hard knocks
of hand-to-hand fighting. Their chosen method of battling is to lie
down on the ground and shoot. This is more suited to their
physique, which is rarely great. The gangsman, as a rule, is
stunted and slight of build.
The Kid's rapid work on the present occasion created a good deal of
confusion. There was no doubt that much had been hoped for from
speedy attack. Also, the generalship of the expedition had been in
the hands of the fallen warrior. His removal from the sphere of
active influence had left the party without a head. And, to add to
their discomfiture, they could not account for the Kid. Psmith they
knew, and Billy Windsor they knew, but who was this stranger with
the square shoulders and the upper-cut that landed like a
cannon-ball? Something approaching a panic prevailed among the
gang.
It was not lessened by the behaviour of the intended victims. Billy
Windsor, armed with the big stick which he had bought after the
visit of Mr. Parker, was the first to join issue. He had been a few
paces behind the others during the black-jack incident; but, dark
as it was, he had seen enough to show him that the occasion was, as
Psmith would have said, one for the Shrewd Blow rather than the
Prolonged Parley. With a whoop of the purest Wyoming brand, he
sprang forward into the confused mass of the enemy. A moment later
Psmith and the Kid followed, and there raged over the body of the
fallen leader a battle of Homeric type.
It was not a long affair. The rules and conditions governing the
encounter offended the delicate sensibilities of the gang. Like
artists who feel themselves trammelled by distasteful conventions,
they were damped and could not do themselves justice. Their forte
was long-range fighting with pistols. With that they felt en
rapport. But this vulgar brawling in the darkness with muscular
opponents who hit hard and often with sticks and hands was
distasteful to them. They could not develop any enthusiasm for it.
They carried pistols, but it was too dark and the combatants were
too entangled to allow them to use these. Besides, this was not the
dear, homely old Bowery, where a gentleman may fire a pistol
without exciting vulgar comment. It was up-town, where curious
crowds might collect at the first shot.
There was but one thing to be done. Reluctant as they might be to
abandon their fallen leader, they must tear themselves away.
Already they were suffering grievously from the stick, the
black-jack, and the lightning blows of the Kid. For a moment they
hung, wavering; then stampeded in half a dozen different
directions, melting into the night whence they had come.
Billy, full of zeal, pursued one fugitive some fifty yards down the
street, but his quarry, exhibiting a rare turn of speed, easily
outstripped him.
He came back, panting, to find Psmith and the Kid examining the
fallen leader of the departed ones with the aid of a match, which
went out just as Billy arrived.
"It is our friend of the earlier part of the evening, Comrade
Windsor," said Psmith. "The merchant with whom we hob-nobbed on our
way to the Highfield. In a moment of imprudence I mentioned Cosy
Moments. I fancy that this was his first intimation that we were in
the offing. His visit to the Highfield was paid, I think, purely
from sport-loving motives. He was not on our trail. He came merely
to see if Comrade Brady was proficient with his hands. Subsequent
events must have justified our fighting editor in his eyes. It
seems to be a moot point whether he will ever recover
consciousness."
"Mighty good thing if he doesn't," said Billy uncharitably.
"From one point of view, Comrade Windsor, yes. Such an event would
undoubtedly be an excellent thing for the public good. But from our
point of view, it would be as well if he were to sit up and take
notice. We could ascertain from him who he is and which particular
collection of horny-handeds he represents. Light another match,
Comrade Brady."
The Kid did so. The head of it fell off and dropped upon the
up-turned face. The hooligan stirred, shook himself, sat up, and
began to mutter something in a foggy voice.
"He's still woozy," said the Kid.
"Still--what exactly, Comrade Brady?"
"In the air," explained the Kid. "Bats in the belfry. Dizzy. See
what I mean? It's often like that when a feller puts one in with a
bit of weight behind it just where that one landed. Gum! I
remember when I fought Martin Kelly; I was only starting to learn
the game then. Martin and me was mixing it good and hard all over
the ring, when suddenly he puts over a stiff one right on the
point. What do you think I done? Fall down and take the count? Not
on your life. I just turns round and walks straight out of the
ring to my dressing-room. Willie Harvey, who was seconding me,
comes tearing in after me, and finds me getting into my clothes.
'What's doing, Kid?' he asks. 'I'm going fishin', Willie,' I says.
'It's a lovely day.' 'You've lost the fight,' he says. 'Fight?'
says I. 'What fight?' See what I mean? I hadn't a notion of what
had happened. It was a half an hour and more before I could
remember a thing."
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