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Pelham Grenville Wodehouse >> Psmith, Journalist
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The light of intelligence began to shine in Master Maloney's face.
His eye glistened with respectful approval. This was strategy of
the right sort.
"Dude Dawson? Nope. But I can ask around."
"Do so, Comrade Maloney. And when found, tell him that his old
college chum, Spider Reilly, is here. He will not be able to come
himself, I fear, but he can send representatives."
"Sure."
"That's all, then. Go downstairs with a gay and jaunty air, as if
you had no connection with the old firm at all. Whistle a few
lively bars. Make careless gestures. Thus shall you win through.
And now it would be no bad idea, I fancy, for me to join the rest
of the brains of the paper up aloft. Off you go, Comrade Maloney.
And, in passing, don't take a week about it. Leg it with all the
speed you possess."
Pugsy vanished, and Psmith closed the door behind him. Inspection
revealed the fact that it possessed no lock. As a barrier it was
useless. He left it ajar, and, jumping up, gripped the edge of the
opening in the roof and pulled himself through.
Billy Windsor was seated comfortably on Mr. Gooch's chest a few
feet away. By his side was his big stick. Psmith possessed himself
of this, and looked about him. The examination was satisfactory.
The trap-door appeared to be the only means of access to the roof,
and between their roof and that of the next house there was a broad
gulf.
"Practically impregnable," he murmured. "Only one thing can dish
us, Comrade Windsor; and that is if they have the sense to get on
to the roof next door and start shooting. Even in that case,
however, we have cover in the shape of the chimneys. I think we
may fairly say that all is well. How are you getting along? Has the
patient responded at all?"
"Not yet," said Billy. "But he's going to."
"He will be in your charge. I must devote myself exclusively to
guarding the bridge. It is a pity that the trap has not got a bolt
this side. If it had, the thing would be a perfect picnic. As it
is, we must leave it open. But we mustn't expect everything."
Billy was about to speak, but Psmith suddenly held up his hand
warningly. From the room below came a sound of feet.
For a moment the silence was tense. Then from Mr. Gooch's lips
there escaped a screech.
"This way! They're up--"
The words were cut short as Billy banged his hand over the
speaker's mouth. But the thing was done.
"On top de roof," cried a voice. "Dey've beaten it for de roof."
The chair rasped over the floor. Feet shuffled. And then, like a
jack-in-the-box, there popped through the opening a head and
shoulders.
CHAPTER XXI
THE BATTLE OF PLEASANT STREET
THE new arrival was a young man with a shock of red hair, an
ingrowing Roman nose, and a mouth from which force or the passage
of time had removed three front teeth. He held on to the edges of
the trap with his hands, and stared in a glassy manner into
Psmith's face, which was within a foot of his own.
There was a momentary pause, broken by an oath from Mr. Gooch, who
was still undergoing treatment in the background.
"Aha!" said Psmith genially. Historic picture. "Doctor Cook
discovers the North Pole.'"
The red-headed young man blinked. The strong light of the open air
was trying to his eyes.
"Youse had better come down," he observed coldly. "We've got
youse."
"And," continued Psmith, unmoved, "is instantly handed a gum-drop
by his faithful Esquimaux."
As he spoke, he brought the stick down on the knuckles which
disfigured the edges of the trap. The intruder uttered a howl and
dropped out of sight. In the room below there were whisperings and
mutterings, growing gradually louder till something resembling
coherent conversation came to Psmith's ears, as he knelt by the
trap making meditative billiard-shots with the stick at a small
pebble.
"Aw g'wan! Don't be a quitter!"
"Who's a quitter?
"Youse is a quitter. Get on top de roof. He can't hoit youse."
"De guy's gotten a big stick." Psmith nodded appreciatively. "I
and Roosevelt," he murmured.
A somewhat baffled silence on the part of the attacking force was
followed by further conversation.
"Gum! some guy's got to go up." Murmur of assent from the audience.
A voice, in inspired tones: "Let Sam do it!"
This suggestion made a hit. There was no doubt about that. It was a
success from the start. Quite a little chorus of voices expressed
sincere approval of the very happy solution to what had seemed an
insoluble problem. Psmith, listening from above, failed to detect
in the choir of glad voices one that might belong to Sam himself.
Probably gratification had rendered the chosen one dumb.
"Yes, let Sam do it!" cried the unseen chorus. The first speaker,
unnecessarily, perhaps--for the motion had been carried almost
unanimously--but possibly with the idea of convincing the one
member of the party in whose bosom doubts might conceivably be
harboured, went on to adduce reasons.
"Sam bein' a coon," he argued, "ain't goin' to git hoit by no
stick. Youse can't hoit a coon by soakin' him on de coco, can you,
Sam?"
Psmith waited with some interest for the reply, but it did not
come. Possibly Sam did not wish to generalise on insufficient
experience.
"Solvitur ambulando," said Psmith softly, turning the stick round in
his fingers. "Comrade Windsor!"
"Hullo?"
Is it possible to hurt a coloured gentleman by hitting him on the
head with a stick?"
"If you hit him hard enough."
"I knew there was some way out of the difficulty," said Psmith with
satisfaction. "How are you getting on up at your end of the table,
Comrade Windsor?"
"Fine."
"Any result yet?"
"Not at present."
"Don't give up."
"Not me."
"The right spirit, Comrade Win--"
A report like a cannon in the room below interrupted him. It was
merely a revolver shot, but in the confined space it was deafening.
The bullet sang up into the sky.
"Never hit me!" said Psmith with dignified triumph.
The noise was succeeded by a shuffling of feet. Psmith grasped his
stick more firmly. This was evidently the real attack. The revolver
shot had been a mere demonstration of artillery to cover the
infantry's advance.
Sure enough, the next moment a woolly head popped through the
opening, and a pair of rolling eyes gleamed up at the old Etonian.
"Why, Sam!" said Psmith cordially, "this is well met! I remember
you. Yes, indeed, I do. Wasn't you the feller with the open
umbereller that I met one rainy morning on the Av-en-ue? What, are
you coming up? Sam, I hate to do it, but--"
A yell rang out.
"What was that?" asked Billy Windsor over his shoulder.
"Your statement, Comrade Windsor, has been tested and proved
correct."
By this time the affair had begun to draw a "gate." The noise of
the revolver had proved a fine advertisement. The roof of the house
next door began to fill up. Only a few of the occupants could get a
clear view of the proceedings, for a large chimney-stack
intervened. There was considerable speculation as to what was
passing between Billy Windsor and Mr. Gooch. Psmith's share in the
entertainment was more obvious. The early comers had seen his
interview with Sam, and were relating it with gusto to their
friends. Their attitude towards Psmith was that of a group of men
watching a terrier at a rat-hole. They looked to him to provide
entertainment for them, but they realised that the first move must
be with the attackers. They were fair-minded men, and they did not
expect Psmith to make any aggressive move.
Their indignation, when the proceedings began to grow slow, was
directed entirely at the dilatory Three Pointers. With an aggrieved
air, akin to that of a crowd at a cricket match when batsmen are
playing for a draw, they began to "barrack." They hooted the Three
Pointers. They begged them to go home and tuck themselves up in
bed. The men on the roof were mostly Irishmen, and it offended them
to see what should have been a spirited fight so grossly bungled.
"G'wan away home, ye quitters!" roared one.
"Call yersilves the Three Points, do ye? An' would ye know what I
call ye? The Young Ladies' Seminary!" bellowed another with
withering scorn.
A third member of the audience alluded to them as "stiffs."
"I fear, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith, "that our blithe friends
below are beginning to grow a little unpopular with the
many-headed. They must be up and doing if they wish to retain the
esteem of Pleasant Street. Aha!"
Another and a longer explosion from below, and more bullets wasted
themselves on air. Psmith sighed.
"They make me tired," he said. "This is no time for a feu de joie.
Action! That is the cry. Action! Get busy, you blighters!"
The Irish neighbours expressed the same sentiment in different and
more forcible words. There was no doubt about it--as warriors, the
Three Pointers had failed to give satisfaction.
A voice from the room called up to Psmith.
"Say!"
"You have our ear," said Psmith.
"What's that?"
"I said you had our ear."
"Are youse stiffs comin' down off out of dat roof?"
"Would you mind repeating that remark?"
"Are youse guys goin' to quit off out of dat roof?"
"Your grammar is perfectly beastly," said Psmith severely.
"Hey!"
"Well?"
"Are youse guys--?"
"No, my lad," said Psmith, "since you ask, we are not. And why?
Because the air up here is refreshing, the view pleasant, and we
are expecting at any moment an important communication from Comrade
Gooch."
"We're goin' to wait here till youse come down."
"If you wish it," said Psmith courteously, "by all means do. Who am
I that I should dictate your movements? The most I aspire to is to
check them when they take an upward direction."
There was silence below. The time began to pass slowly. The
Irishmen on the other roof, now definitely abandoning hope of
further entertainment, proceeded with hoots of scorn to climb down
one by one into the recesses of their own house.
Suddenly from the street far below there came a fusillade of shots
and a babel of shouts and counter-shouts. The roof of the house
next door, which had been emptying itself slowly and reluctantly,
filled again with a magical swiftness. and the low wall facing into
the street became black with the backs of those craning over.
"What's that?" inquired Billy.
"I rather fancy," said Psmith, "that our allies of the Table Hill
contingent must have arrived. I sent Comrade Maloney to explain
matters to Dude Dawson, and it seems as if that golden-hearted
sportsman had responded. There appear to be great doings in the
street."
In the room below confusion had arisen. A scout, clattering
upstairs, had brought the news of the Table Hillites' advent, and
there was doubt as to the proper course to pursue. Certain voices
urged going down to help the main body. Others pointed out that
that would mean abandoning the siege of the roof. The scout who had
brought the news was eloquent in favour of the first course.
"Gum!" he cried, "don't I keep tellin' youse dat de Table Hills is
here? Sure, dere's a whole bunch of dem, and unless youse come on
down dey'll bite de hull head off of us lot. Leave those stiffs on
de roof. Let Sam wait here with his canister, and den dey can't get
down, 'cos Sam'll pump dem full of lead while dey're beatin' it
t'roo de trap-door. Sure."
Psmith nodded reflectively.
"There is certainly something in what the bright boy says," he
murmured. "It seems to me the grand rescue scene in the third act
has sprung a leak. This will want thinking over."
In the street the disturbance had now become terrific. Both sides
were hard at it, and the Irishmen on the roof, rewarded at last for
their long vigil, were yelling encouragement promiscuously and
whooping with the unfettered ecstasy of men who are getting the
treat of their lives without having paid a penny for it.
The behaviour of the New York policeman in affairs of this kind is
based on principles of the soundest practical wisdom. The
unthinking man would rush in and attempt to crush the combat in its
earliest and fiercest stages. The New York policeman, knowing the
importance of his own safety, and the insignificance of the
gangsman's, permits the opposing forces to hammer each other into a
certain distaste for battle, and then, when both sides have begun
to have enough of it, rushes in himself and clubs everything in
sight. It is an admirable process in its results, but it is sure
rather than swift.
Proceedings in the affair below had not yet reached the police
interference stage. The noise, what with the shots and yells from
the street and the ear-piercing approval of the roof-audience, was
just working up to a climax.
Psmith rose. He was tired of kneeling by the trap, and there was no
likelihood of Sam making another attempt to climb through. He
walked towards Billy.
As he did so, Billy got up and turned to him. His eyes were
gleaming with excitement. His whole attitude was triumphant. In his
hand he waved a strip of paper.
"I've got it," he cried.
"Excellent, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith. "Surely we must win
through now. All we have to do is to get off this roof, and fate
cannot touch us. Are two mammoth minds such as ours unequal to such
a feat? It can hardly be. Let us ponder."
"Why not go down through the trap? They've all gone to the street."
Psmith shook his head.
"All," he replied, "save Sam. Sam was the subject of my late
successful experiment, when I proved that coloured gentlemen's
heads could be hurt with a stick. He is now waiting below, armed
with a pistol, ready--even anxious--to pick us off as we climb
through the trap. How would it be to drop Comrade Gooch through
first, and so draw his fire? Comrade Gooch, I am sure, would be
delighted to do a little thing like that for old friends of our
standing or--but what's that!"
"What's the matter?"
"Is that a ladder that I see before me, its handle to my hand? It
is! Comrade Windsor, we win through. Cosy Moments' editorial staff
may be tree'd, but it cannot be put out of business. Comrade
Windsor, take the other end of that ladder and follow me."
The ladder was lying against the farther wall. It was long, more
than long enough for the purpose for which it was needed. Psmith
and Billy rested it on the coping, and pushed it till the other end
reached across the gulf to the roof of the house next door, Mr.
Gooch eyeing them in silence the while.
Psmith turned to him.
"Comrade Gooch," he said, "do nothing to apprise our friend Sam of
these proceedings. I speak in your best interests. Sam is in no
mood to make nice distinctions between friend and foe. If you
bring him up here, he will probably mistake you for a member of the
staff of Cosy Moments, and loose off in your direction without
waiting for explanations. I think you had better come with us. I
will go first, Comrade Windsor, so that if the ladder breaks, the
paper will lose merely a sub-editor, not an editor."
He went down on all-fours, and in this attitude wormed his way
across to the opposite roof, whose occupants, engrossed in the
fight in the street, in which the police had now joined, had their
backs turned and did not observe him. Mr. Gooch, pallid and
obviously ill-attuned to such feats, followed him; and finally
Billy Windsor reached the other side.
"Neat," said Psmith complacently. "Uncommonly neat. Comrade Gooch
reminded me of the untamed chamois of the Alps, leaping from crag
to crag."
In the street there was now comparative silence. The police, with
their clubs, had knocked the last remnant of fight out of the
combatants. Shooting had definitely ceased.
"I think," said Psmith, "that we might now descend. If you have no
other engagements, Comrade Windsor, I will take you to the
Knickerbocker, and buy you a square meal. I would ask for the
pleasure of your company also, Comrade Gooch, were it not that
matters of private moment, relating to the policy of the paper,
must be discussed at the table. Some other day, perhaps. We are
infinitely obliged to you for your sympathetic co-operation in this
little matter. And now good-bye. Comrade Windsor, let us debouch."
CHAPTER XXII
CONCERNING MR. WARING
PSMITH pushed back his chair slightly, stretched out his legs, and
lit a cigarette. The resources of the Knickerbocker Hotel had
proved equal to supplying the fatigued staff of Cosy Moments with
an excellent dinner, and Psmith had stoutly declined to talk
business until the coffee arrived. This had been hard on Billy,
who was bursting with his news. Beyond a hint that it was
sensational he had not been permitted to go.
"More bright young careers than I care to think of," said Psmith,
"have been ruined by the fatal practice of talking shop at dinner.
But now that we are through, Comrade Windsor, by all means let us
have it. What's the name which Comrade Gooch so eagerly divulged?"
Billy leaned forward excitedly.
"Stewart Waring," he whispered.
"Stewart who?" asked Psmith.
Billy stared.
"Great Scott, man!" he said, "haven't you heard of Stewart Waring?"
"The name seems vaguely familiar, like isinglass or Post-toasties.
I seem to know it, but it conveys nothing to me."
"Don't you ever read the papers?"
"I toy with my American of a morning, but my interest is confined
mainly to the sporting page which reminds me that Comrade Brady has
been matched against one Eddie Wood a month from to-day. Gratifying
as it is to find one of the staff getting on in life, I fear this
will cause us a certain amount of inconvenience. Comrade Brady
will have to leave the office temporarily in order to go into
training, and what shall we do then for a fighting editor? However,
possibly we may not need one now. Cosy Moments should be able
shortly to give its message to the world and ease up for a while.
Which brings us back to the point. Who is Stewart Waring?"
"Stewart Waring is running for City Alderman. He's one of the
biggest men in New York!"
"Do you mean in girth? If so, he seems to have selected the right
career for himself."
"He's one of the bosses. He used to be Commissioner of Buildings
for the city."
"Commissioner of Buildings? What exactly did that let him in for?"
"It let him in for a lot of graft."
"How was that?"
"Oh, he took it off the contractors. Shut his eyes and held out his
hands when they ran up rotten buildings that a strong breeze would
have knocked down, and places like that Pleasant Street hole
without any ventilation."
"Why did he throw up the job?" inquired Psmith. "it seems to me
that it was among the World's Softest. Certain drawbacks to it,
perhaps, to the man with the Hair-Trigger Conscience; but I gather
that Comrade Waring did not line up in that class. What was his
trouble?"
"His trouble," said Billy, "was that he stood in with a contractor
who was putting up a music-hall, and the contractor put it up with
material about as strong as a heap of meringues, and it collapsed
on the third night and killed half the audience."
"And then?"
"The papers raised a howl, and they got after the contractor, and
the contractor gave Waring away. It killed him for the time being."
"I should have thought it would have had that excellent result
permanently," said Psmith thoughtfully. "Do you mean to say he got
back again after that?"
"He had to quit being Commissioner, of course, and leave the town
for a time; but affairs move so fast here that a thing like that
blows over. He made a bit of a pile out of the job, and could
afford to lie low for a year or two."
"How long ago was that?"
"Five years. People don't remember a thing here that happened five
years back unless they're reminded of it."
Psmith lit another cigarette.
"We will remind them," he said.
Billy nodded.
"Of course," he said, "one or two of the papers against him in this
Aldermanic Election business tried to bring the thing up, but they
didn't cut any ice. The other papers said it was a shame, hounding
a man who was sorry for the past and who was trying to make good
now; so they dropped it. Everybody thought that Waring was on the
level now. He's been shooting off a lot of hot air lately about
philanthropy and so on. Not that he has actually done a thing--not
so much as given a supper to a dozen news-boys; but he's talked,
and talk gets over if you keep it up long enough."
Psmith nodded adhesion to this dictum.
"So that naturally he wants to keep it dark about these tenements.
It'll smash him at the election when it gets known."
"Why is he so set on becoming an Alderman," inquired Psmith.
"There's a lot of graft to being an Alderman," explained Billy.
"I see. No wonder the poor gentleman was so energetic in his
methods. What is our move now, Comrade Windsor?"
Billy stared.
"Why, publish the name, of course."
"But before then? How are we going to ensure the safety of our
evidence? We stand or fall entirely by that slip of paper, because
we've got the beggar's name in the writing of his own collector,
and that's proof positive."
"That's all right," said Billy, patting his breast-pocket.
"Nobody's going to get it from me."
Psmith dipped his hand into his trouser-pocket.
"Comrade Windsor," he said, producing a piece of paper, "how do we
go?"
He leaned back in his chair, surveying Billy blandly through his
eye-glass. Billy's eyes were goggling. He looked from Psmith to the
paper and from the paper to Psmith.
"What--what the--?" he stammered. "Why, it's it!"
Psmith nodded.
"How on earth did you get it?"
Psmith knocked the ash off his cigarette.
"Comrade Windsor," he said, "I do not wish to cavil or carp or rub
it in in any way. I will merely remark that you pretty nearly
landed us in the soup, and pass on to more congenial topics.
Didn't you know we were followed to this place?"
"Followed!"
By a merchant in what Comrade Maloney would call a tall-shaped hat.
I spotted him at an early date, somewhere down by Twenty-ninth
Street. When we dived into Sixth Avenue for a space at Thirty-third
Street, did he dive, too? He did. And when we turned into
Forty-second Street, there he was. I tell you, Comrade Windsor,
leeches were aloof, and burrs non-adhesive compared with that
tall-shaped-hatted blighter."
"Yes?"
"Do you remember, as you came to the entrance of this place,
somebody knocking against you?"
"Yes, there was a pretty big crush in the entrance."
"There was; but not so big as all that. There was plenty of room
for this merchant to pass if he had wished. Instead of which he
butted into you. I happened to be waiting for just that, so I
managed to attach myself to his wrist with some vim and give it a
fairly hefty wrench. The paper was inside his hand."
Billy was leaning forward with a pale face.
"Jove!" he muttered.
"That about sums it up," said Psmith.
Billy snatched the paper from the table and extended it towards
him.
"Here," he said feverishly, "you take it. Gum, I never thought I
was such a mutt! I'm not fit to take charge of a toothpick. Fancy
me not being on the watch for something of that sort. I guess I was
so tickled with myself at the thought of having got the thing, that
it never struck me they might try for it. But I'm through. No more
for me. You're the man in charge now."
Psmith shook his head.
"These stately compliments," he said, "do my old heart good, but I
fancy I know a better plan. It happened that I chanced to have my
eye on the blighter in the tall-shaped hat, and so was enabled to
land him among the ribstones; but who knows but that in the crowd
on Broadway there may not lurk other, unidentified blighters in
equally tall-shaped hats, one of whom may work the same
sleight-of-hand speciality on me? It was not that you were not
capable of taking care of that paper: it was simply that you didn't
happen to spot the man. Now observe me closely, for what follows is
an exhibition of Brain."
He paid the bill, and they went out into the entrance-hall of the
hotel. Psmith, sitting down at a table, placed the paper in an
envelope and addressed it to himself at the address of Cosy
Moments. After which, he stamped the envelope and dropped it into
the letter-box at the back of the hall.
"And now, Comrade Windsor," he said, "let us stroll gently
homewards down the Great White Way. What matter though it be fairly
stiff with low-browed bravoes in tall-shaped hats? They cannot harm
us. From me, if they search me thoroughly, they may scoop a matter
of eleven dollars, a watch, two stamps, and a packet of
chewing-gum. Whether they would do any better with you I do not
know. At any rate, they wouldn't get that paper; and that's the
main thing."
"You're a genius," said Billy Windsor.
"You think so?" said Psmith diffidently. "Well, well, perhaps you
are right, perhaps you are right. Did you notice the hired ruffian
in the flannel suit who just passed? He wore a baffled look, I
fancy. And hark! Wasn't that a muttered 'Failed!' I heard? Or was
it the breeze moaning in the tree-tops? To-night is a cold,
disappointing night for Hired Ruffians, Comrade Windsor."
CHAPTER XXIII
REDUCTIONS IN THE STAFF
THE first member of the staff of Cosy Moments to arrive at the
office on the following morning was Master Maloney. This sounds
like the beginning of a "Plod and Punctuality," or "How Great
Fortunes have been Made" story; but, as a matter of fact, Master
Maloney was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighbourhood,
rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at
the office at nine o'clock. It was a point of honour with him, a
sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an
appearance before nine-thirty. On this particular morning he was
punctual to the minute, or half an hour late, whichever way you
choose to look at it.
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