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Pelham Grenville Wodehouse >> Psmith, Journalist
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For a moment Mr. Coston did not see which lady was alluded to,
"De goil in de pink skoit," said Mr. Dawson, facilitating the
other's search by pointing with a much-chewed cigarette. It was at
this moment that Nature's smile was shut off as if by a tap. For
the lady in the pink skirt had been in receipt of Mr. Coston's
respectful devotion for the past eight days.
From this point onwards the march of events was rapid.
Mr. Coston, rising, asked Mr. Dawson who he thought he, Mr. Dawson,
was.
Mr. Dawson, extinguishing his cigarette and placing it behind his
ear, replied that he was the fellow who could bite his, Mr.
Coston's, head off.
Mr. Coston said: "Huh?"
Mr. Dawson said: "Sure."
Mr. Coston called Mr. Dawson a pie-faced rubber-necked
four-flusher.
Mr. Dawson called Mr. Coston a coon.
And that was where the trouble really started.
It was secretly a great grief to Mr. Coston that his skin was of so
swarthy a hue. To be permitted to address Mr. Coston face to face
by his nickname was a sign of the closest friendship, to which only
Spider Reilly, Jack Repetto, and one or two more of the gang could
aspire. Others spoke of him as Nigger, or, more briefly,
Nig--strictly behind his back. For Mr. Coston had a wide reputation
as a fighter, and his particular mode of battling was to descend on
his antagonist and bite him. Into this action he flung himself with
the passionate abandonment of the artist. When he bit he bit. He
did not nibble.
If a friend had called Mr. Coston "Nig" he would have been running
grave risks. A stranger, and a leader of a rival gang, who
addressed him as "coon" was more than asking for trouble. He was
pleading for it.
Great men seldom waste time. Mr. Coston, leaning towards Mr.
Dawson, promptly bit him on the cheek. Mr. Dawson bounded from his
seat. Such was the excitement of the moment that, instead of
drawing his "canister," he forgot that he had one on his person,
and, seizing a mug which had held beer, bounced it vigorously on
Mr. Coston's skull, which, being of solid wood, merely gave out a
resonant note and remained unbroken.
So far the honours were comparatively even, with perhaps a slight
balance in favour of Mr. Coston. But now occurred an incident
which turned the scale, and made war between the gangs inevitable.
In the far corner of the room, surrounded by a crowd of admiring
friends, sat Spider Reilly, monarch of the Three Points. He had
noticed that there was a slight disturbance at the other side of
the hall, but had given it little attention till, the dancing
ceasing suddenly and the floor emptying itself of its crowd, he had
a plain view of Mr. Dawson and Mr. Coston squaring up at each
other for the second round. We must assume that Mr. Reilly was not
thinking what he did, for his action was contrary to all rules of
gang-etiquette. In the street it would have been perfectly
legitimate, even praiseworthy, but in a dance-hall belonging to a
neutral power it was unpardonable.
What he did was to produce his "canister" and pick off the
unsuspecting Mr. Dawson just as that exquisite was preparing to get
in some more good work with the beer-mug. The leader of the Table
Hillites fell with a crash, shot through the leg; and Spider
Reilly, together with Mr. Coston and others of the Three Points,
sped through the doorway for safety, fearing the wrath of Bat
Jarvis, who, it was known, would countenance no such episodes at
the dance-hall which he had undertaken to protect.
Mr. Dawson, meanwhile, was attended to and helped home. Willing
informants gave him the name of his aggressor, and before morning
the Table Hill camp was in ferment. Shooting broke out in three
places, though there were no casualties. When the day dawned there
existed between the two gangs a state of war more bitter than any
in their record; for this time it was no question of obscure
nonentities. Chieftain had assaulted chieftain; royal blood had
been spilt.
"Comrade Windsor," said Psmith, when Master Maloney had spoken his
last word, "we must take careful note of this little matter. I
rather fancy that sooner or later we may be able to turn it to our
profit. I am sorry for Dude Dawson, anyhow. Though I have never
met him, I have a sort of instinctive respect for him. A man such
as he would feel a bullet through his trouser-leg more than one of
common clay who cared little how his clothes looked."
CHAPTER XIX
IN PLEASANT STREET
CAREFUL inquiries, conducted incognito by Master Maloney among the
denizens of Pleasant Street, brought the information that rents in
the tenements were collected not weekly but monthly, a fact which
must undoubtedly cause a troublesome hitch in the campaign.
Rent-day, announced Pugsy, fell on the last day of the month.
"I rubbered around," he said, "and did de sleut' act, and I finds
t'ings out. Dere's a feller comes round 'bout supper time dat day,
an' den it's up to de fam'lies what lives in de tenements to dig
down into deir jeans fer de stuff, or out dey goes dat same night."
"Evidently a hustler, our nameless friend," said Psmith.
"I got dat from a kid what knows anuder kid what lives dere,"
explained Master Maloney. "Say," he proceeded confidentially, "dat
kid's in bad, sure he is. Dat second kid, de one what lives dere.
He's a wop kid, an--"
"A what, Comrade Maloney?"
"A wop. A Dago. Why, don't you get next? Why, an Italian. Sure,
dat's right. Well, dis kid, he is sure to de bad, 'cos his father
come over from Italy to work on de Subway."
"I don't see why that puts him in bad," said Billy Windsor
wonderingly.
"Nor I," agreed Psmith. "Your narratives, Comrade Maloney, always
seem to me to suffer from a certain lack of construction. You start
at the end, and then you go back to any portion of the story which
happens to appeal to you at the moment, eventually winding up at
the beginning. Why should the fact that this stripling's father
has come over from Italy to work on the Subway be a misfortune?"
"Why, sure, because he got fired an' went an' swatted de foreman
one on de coco, an' de magistrate gives him t'oity days."
"And then, Comrade Maloney? This thing is beginning to get clearer.
You are like Sherlock Holmes. After you've explained a thing from
start to finish--or, as you prefer to do, from finish to start--it
becomes quite simple."
"Why, den dis kid's in bad for fair, 'cos der ain't nobody to
pungle de bones."
"Pungle de what, Comrade Maloney?"
"De bones. De stuff. Dat's right. De dollars. He's all alone, dis
kid, so when de rent-guy blows in, who's to slip him over de
simoleons? It'll be outside for his, quick."
Billy warmed up at this tale of distress in his usual way.
"Somebody ought to do something. It's a vile shame the kid being
turned out like that."
"We will see to it, Comrade Windsor. Cosy Moments shall step in. We
will combine business with pleasure, paying the stripling's rent
and corralling the rent-collector at the same time. What is today?
How long before the end of the month? Another week! A murrain on
it, Comrade Windsor. Two murrains. This delay may undo us."
But the days went by without any further movement on the part of
the enemy. A strange quiet seemed to be brooding over the other
camp. As a matter of fact, the sudden outbreak of active
hostilities with the Table Hill contingent had had the effect of
taking the minds of Spider Reilly and his warriors off Cosy Moments
and its affairs, much as the unexpected appearance of a mad bull
would make a man forget that he had come out butterfly-hunting.
Psmith and Billy could wait; they were not likely to take the
offensive; but the Table Hillites demanded instant attention.
War had broken out, as was usual between the gangs, in a somewhat
tentative fashion at first sight. There had been sniping and
skirmishes by the wayside, but as yet no pitched battle. The two
armies were sparring for an opening.
* * *
The end of the week arrived, and Psmith and Billy, conducted by
Master Maloney, made their way to Pleasant Street. To get there it
was necessary to pass through a section of the enemy's country; but
the perilous passage was safely negotiated. The expedition reached
its unsavoury goal intact.
The wop kid, whose name, it appeared, was Giuseppe Orloni,
inhabited a small room at the very top of the building next to the
one Psmith and Mike had visited on their first appearance in
Pleasant Street. He was out when the party, led by Pugsy up dark
stairs, arrived; and, on returning, seemed both surprised and
alarmed to see visitors. Pugsy undertook to do the honours. Pugsy
as interpreter was energetic but not wholly successful. He appeared
to have a fixed idea that the Italian language was one easily
mastered by the simple method of saying "da" instead of "the," and
tacking on a final "a" to any word that seemed to him to need one.
"Say, kid," he began, "has da rent-a-man come yet-a?"
The black eyes of the wop kid clouded. He gesticulated, and said
something in his native language.
"He hasn't got next," reported Master Maloney. "He can't git on to
me curves. Dese wop kids is all boneheads. Say, kid, look-a here."
He walked out of the room and closed the door; then, rapping on it
smartly from the outside, re-entered and, assuming a look of
extreme ferocity, stretched out his hand and thundered: "Unbelt-a!
Slip-a me da stuff!"
The wop kid's puzzlement became pathetic.
"This," said Psmith, deeply interested, "is getting about as tense
as anything I ever struck. Don't give in, Comrade Maloney. Who
knows but that you may yet win through? I fancy the trouble is that
your too perfect Italian accent is making the youth home-sick. Once
more to the breach, Comrade Maloney."
Master Maloney made a gesture of disgust. "I'm t'roo. Dese Dagoes
makes me tired. Dey don't know enough to go upstairs to take de
Elevated. Beat it, you mutt," he observed with moody displeasure
to the wop kid, accompanying the words with a gesture which
conveyed its own meaning. The wop kid, plainly glad to get away,
slipped out of the door like a shadow.
Pugsy shrugged his shoulders.
"Gents," he said resignedly, "it's up to youse."
"I fancy," said Psmith, "that this is one of those moments when it
is necessary for me to unlimber my Sherlock Holmes system. As thus.
If the rent collector had been here, it is certain, I think, that
Comrade Spaghetti, or whatever you said his name was, wouldn't have
been. That is to say, if the rent collector had called and found no
money waiting for him, surely Comrade Spaghetti would have been out
in the cold night instead of under his own roof-tree. Do you follow
me, Comrade Maloney?"
"That's right," said Billy Windsor. "Of course."
"Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary," murmured Psmith.
"So all we have to do is to sit here and wait."
"All?" said Psmith sadly. "Surely it is enough. For of all the
scaly localities I have struck this seems to me the scaliest. The
architect of this Stately Home of America seems to have had a
positive hatred for windows. His idea of ventilation was to leave
a hole in the wall about the size of a lima bean and let the thing
go at that. If our friend does not arrive shortly, I shall pull
down the roof. Why, gadzooks! Not to mention stap my vitals! Isn't
that a trap-door up there? Make a long-arm, Comrade Windsor."
Billy got on a chair and pulled the bolt. The trap-door opened
downwards. It fell, disclosing a square of deep blue sky.
"Gum!" he said. "Fancy living in this atmosphere when you don't
have to. Fancy these fellows keeping that shut all the time."
"I expect it is an acquired taste," said Psmith, "like Limburger
cheese. They don't begin to appreciate air till it is thick enough
to scoop chunks out of with a spoon. Then they get up on their hind
legs and inflate their chests and say, 'This is fine! This beats
ozone hollow!' Leave it open, Comrade Windsor. And now, as to the
problem of dispensing with Comrade Maloney's services?"
"Sure," said Billy. "Beat it, Pugsy, my lad."
Pugsy looked up, indignant.
"Beat it?" he queried.
"While your shoe leather's good," said Billy. "This is no place
for a minister's son. There may be a rough house in here any
minute, and you would be in the way."
"I want to stop and pipe de fun," objected Master Maloney.
"Never mind. Cut off. We'll tell you all about it to-morrow."
Master Maloney prepared reluctantly to depart. As he did so there
was a sound of a well-shod foot on the stairs, and a man in a
snuff-coloured suit, wearing a brown Homburg hat and carrying a
small notebook in one hand, walked briskly into the room. It was
not necessary for Psmith to get his Sherlock Holmes system to work.
His whole appearance proclaimed the new-comer to be the
long-expected collector of rents.
CHAPTER XX
CORNERED
HE stood in the doorway looking with some surprise at the group
inside. He was a smallish, pale-faced man with protruding eyes and
teeth which gave him a certain resemblance to a rabbit.
"Hello," he said.
"Welcome to New York," said Psmith.
Master Maloney, who had taken advantage of the interruption to edge
farther into the room, now appeared to consider the question of his
departure permanently shelved. He sidled to a corner and sat down
on an empty soap-box with the air of a dramatic critic at the
opening night of a new play. The scene looked good to him. It
promised interesting developments. Master Maloney was an earnest
student of the drama, as exhibited in the theatres of the East
Side, and few had ever applauded the hero of "Escaped from
Sing-Sing," or hissed the villain of "Nellie, the Beautiful
Cloak-Model" with more fervour than he. He liked his drama to have
plenty of action, and to his practised eye this one promised well.
Psmith he looked upon as a quite amiable lunatic, from whom little
was to be expected; but there was a set expression on Billy
Windsor's face which suggested great things.
His pleasure was abruptly quenched. Billy Windsor, placing a firm
hand on his collar, led him to the door and pushed him out, closing
the door behind him.
The rent collector watched these things with a puzzled eye. He now
turned to Psmith.
"Say, seen anything of the wops that live here?" he inquired.
"I am addressing--?" said Psmith courteously.
"My name's Gooch."
Psmith bowed.
"Touching these wops, Comrade Gooch," he said, "I fear there is
little chance of your seeing them to-night, unless you wait some
considerable time. With one of them--the son and heir of the
family, I should say--we have just been having a highly interesting
and informative chat. Comrade Maloney, who has just left us, acted
as interpreter. The father, I am told, is in the dungeon below the
castle moat for a brief spell for punching his foreman in the
eye. The result? The rent is not forthcoming."
"Then it's outside for theirs," said Mr. Gooch definitely.
"It's a big shame," broke in Billy, "turning the kid out. Where's
he to go?"
"That's up to him. Nothing to do with me. I'm only acting under
orders from up top."
"Whose orders, Comrade Gooch?" inquired Psmith.
"The gent who owns this joint."
"Who is he?" said Billy.
Suspicion crept into the protruding eyes of the rent collector. He
waxed wroth. "Say" he demanded. "Who are you two guys, anyway, and
what do you think you're doing here? That's what I'd like to know.
What do you want with the name of the owner of this place? What
business is it of yours?"
"The fact is, Comrade Gooch, we are newspaper men."
"I guessed you were," said Mr. Gooch with triumph. "You can't bluff
me. Well, it's no good, boys. I've nothing for you. You'd better
chase off and try something else."
He became more friendly.
"Say, though," he said, "I just guessed you were from some
paper. I wish I could give you a story, but I can't. I guess
it's this Cosy Moments business that's been and put your editor
on to this joint, ain't it? Say, though, that's a queer thing,
that paper. Why, only a few weeks ago it used to be a sort of
take-home-and-read-to-the-kids affair. A friend of mine used
to buy it regular. And then suddenly it comes out with a
regular whoop, and started knocking these tenements and
boosting Kid Brady, and all that. I can't understand it. All I
know is that it's begun to get this place talked about. Why,
you see for yourselves how it is. Here is your editor sending
you down to get a story about it. But, say, those Cosy Moments
guys are taking big risks. I tell you straight they are, and
that goes. I happen to know a thing or two about what's going
on on the other side, and I tell you there's going to be
something doing if they don't cut it out quick. Mr.--" he
stopped and chuckled, "Mr. Jones isn't the man to sit still and
smile. He's going to get busy. Say, what paper do you boys come
from?"
"Cosy Moments, Comrade Gooch," Psmith replied. "Immediately behind
you, between you and the door, is Comrade Windsor, our editor. I am
Psmith. I sub-edit."
For a moment the inwardness of the information did not seem to come
home to Mr. Gooch. Then it hit him. He spun round. Billy Windsor
was standing with his back against the door and a more than nasty
look on his face.
"What's all this?" demanded Mr. Gooch.
"I will explain all," said Psmith soothingly. In the first place,
however, this matter of Comrade Spaghetti's rent. Sooner than see
that friend of my boyhood slung out to do the wandering-child-
in-the-snow act, I will brass up for him."
"Confound his rent. Let me out."
"Business before pleasure. How much is it? Twelve dollars? For the
privilege of suffocating in this compact little Black Hole? By my
halidom, Comrade Gooch, that gentleman whose name you are so
shortly to tell us has a very fair idea of how to charge! But who
am I that I should criticise? Here are the simoleons, as our young
friend, Comrade Maloney, would call them. Push me over a receipt."
"Let me out."
"Anon, gossip, anon.--Shakespeare. First, the receipt."
Mr. Gooch scribbled a few words in his notebook and tore out the
page. Psmith thanked him.
"I will see that it reaches Comrade Spaghetti," he said. "And now
to a more important matter. Don't put away that notebook. Turn to
a clean page, moisten your pencil, and write as follows. Are you
ready? By the way, what is your Christian name? . . . Gooch, Gooch,
this is no way to speak! Well, if you are sensitive on the point,
we will waive the Christian name. It is my duty to tell you,
however, that I suspect it to be Percy. Let us push on. Are you
ready, once more? Pencil moistened? Very well, then. 'I'--comma--
'being of sound mind and body'--comma--' and a bright little chap
altogether'--comma--Why, you're not writing."
"Let me out," bellowed Mr. Gooch. "I'll summon you for assault and
battery. Playing a fool game like this! Get away from that door."
"There has been no assault and battery yet, Comrade Gooch, but who
shall predict how long so happy a state of things will last? Do not
be deceived by our gay and smiling faces, Comrade Gooch. We mean
business. Let me put the whole position of affairs before you; and
I am sure a man of your perception will see that there is only one
thing to be done."
He dusted the only chair in the room with infinite care and sat
down. Billy Windsor, who had not spoken a word or moved an inch
since the beginning of the interview, continued to stand and be
silent. Mr. Gooch shuffled restlessly in the middle of the room.
"As you justly observed a moment ago," said Psmith, "the staff of
Cosy Moments is taking big risks. We do not rely on your
unsupported word for that. We have had practical demonstration of
the fact from one J. Repetto, who tried some few nights ago to put
us out of business. Well, it struck us both that we had better get
hold of the name of the blighter who runs these tenements as
quickly as possible, before Comrade Repetto's next night out. That
is what we should like you to give us, Comrade Gooch. And we should
like it in writing. And, on second thoughts, in ink. I have one of
those patent non-leakable fountain pens in my pocket. The Old
Journalist's Best Friend. Most of the ink has come out and is
permeating the lining of my coat, but I think there is still
sufficient for our needs. Remind me later, Comrade Gooch, to
continue on the subject of fountain pens. I have much to say on the
theme. Meanwhile, however, business, business. That is the cry."
He produced a pen and an old letter, the last page of which was
blank, and began to write.
"How does this strike you? "he said. "'I'--(I have left a blank
for the Christian name: you can write it in yourself later)--' I,
blank Gooch, being a collector of rents in Pleasant Street, New
York, do hereby swear'--hush, Comrade Gooch, there is no need to do
it yet--'that the name of the owner of the Pleasant Street
tenements, who is responsible for the perfectly foul conditions
there, is--' And that is where you come in, Comrade Gooch. That is
where we need your specialised knowledge. Who is he?"
Billy Windsor reached out and grabbed the rent collector by the
collar. Having done this, he proceeded to shake him.
Billy was muscular, and his heart was so much in the business that
Mr. Gooch behaved as if he had been caught in a high wind. It is
probable that in another moment the desired information might have
been shaken out of him, but before this could happen there was a
banging at the door, followed by the entrance of Master Maloney.
For the first time since Psmith had known him, Pugsy was openly
excited.
"Say," he began, "youse had better beat it quick, you had. Dey's
coming!"
"And now go back to the beginning, Comrade Maloney," said Psmith
patiently, "which in the exuberance of the moment you have skipped.
Who are coming?"
"Why, dem. De guys."
Psmith shook his head.
"Your habit of omitting essentials, Comrade Maloney, is going to
undo you one of these days. When you get to that ranch of yours,
you will probably start out to gallop after the cattle without
remembering to mount your mustang. There are four million guys in
New York. Which section is it that is coming?
"Gum! I don't know how many dere is ob dem. I seen Spider Reilly
an' Jack Repetto an'-"
"Say no more," said Psmith. "If Comrade Repetto is there, that is
enough for me. I am going to get on the roof and pull it up after
me."
Billy released Mr. Gooch, who fell, puffing, on to the low bed,
which stood in one corner of the room.
"They must have spotted us as we were coming here," he said, "and
followed us. Where did you see them, Pugsy?"
"On de Street just outside. Dere was a bunch of dem talkin'
togedder, and I hears dem say you was in here. One of dem seen you
come in, an dere ain't no ways out but de front, so dey ain't
hurryin'! Dey just reckon to pike along upstairs, lookin' into each
room till dey finds you. An dere's a bunch of dem goin' to wait on
de Street in case youse beat it past down de stairs while de udder
guys is rubberin' for youse. Say, gents, it's pretty fierce, dis
proposition. What are youse goin' to do?"
Mr. Gooch, from the bed, laughed unpleasantly.
"I guess you ain't the only assault-and-battery artists in the
business," he said. "Looks to me as if some one else was going to
get shaken up some."
Billy looked at Psmith.
"Well?" he said. "What shall we do? Go down and try and rush
through?"
Psmith shook his head.
"Not so, Comrade Windsor, but about as much otherwise as you can
jolly well imagine."
"Well, what then?"
"We will stay here. Or rather we will hop nimbly up on to the roof
through that skylight. Once there, we may engage these varlets on
fairly equal terms. They can only get through one at a time. And
while they are doing it I will give my celebrated imitation of
Horatius. We had better be moving. Our luggage, fortunately, is
small. Merely Comrade Gooch. If you will get through the skylight,
I will pass him up to you."
Mr. Gooch, with much verbal embroidery, stated that he would not
go. Psmith acted promptly. Gripping the struggling rent collector
round the waist, and ignoring his frantic kicks as mere errors in
taste, he lifted him to the trap-door, whence the head, shoulders
and arms of Billy Windsor protruded into the room. Billy collected
the collector, and then Psmith turned to Pugsy.
"Comrade Maloney."
"Huh?"
"Have I your ear?"
"Huh?"
"Are you listening till you feel that your ears are the size of
footballs? Then drink this in. For weeks you have been praying for
a chance to show your devotion to the great cause; or if you
haven't, you ought to have been. That chance has come. You alone
can save us. In a sense, of course, we do not need to be saved.
They will find it hard to get at us, I fancy, on the roof. But it
ill befits the dignity of the editorial staff of a great New York
weekly to roost like pigeons for any length of time; and
consequently it is up to you."
"Shall I go for de cops, Mr. Smith?"
"No, Comrade Maloney, I thank you. I have seen the cops in action,
and they did not impress me. We do not want allies who will merely
shake their heads at Comrade Repetto and the others, however
sternly. We want some one who will swoop down upon these merry
roisterers, and, as it were, soak to them good. Do you know where
Dude Dawson lives?"
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