CHAPTER XXIX
THE KNOCK-OUT FOR MR. WARING
"You!" cried Mr. Wilberfloss.
"The same," said Psmith.
"You!" exclaimed Messrs. Waterman, Asher, and the Reverend EdwinPhilpotts.
"On the spot!" said Psmith.
Mr. Wilberfloss groped for a chair and sat down.
"Am I going mad?" he demanded feebly.
"Not so, Comrade Wilberfloss," said Psmith encouragingly. "All iswell. The cry goes round New York, 'Comrade Wilberfloss is to thegood. He does not gibber.'"
"Do I understand you to say that you own this paper?"
"I do."
"Since when?"
"Roughly speaking, about a month."
Among his audience (still excepting Mr. Jarvis, who was ticklingone of the cats and whistling a plaintive melody) there was atendency toward awkward silence. To start bally-ragging a seemingnonentity and then to discover he is the proprietor of the paper towhich you wish to contribute is like kicking an apparently emptyhat and finding your rich uncle inside it. Mr. Wilberfloss inparticular was disturbed. Editorships of the kind which he aspiredto are not easy to get. If he were to be removed from _Cosy Moments_he would find it hard to place himself anywhere else. Editors, likemanuscripts, are rejected from want of space.
"Very early in my connection with this journal," said Psmith, "Isaw that I was on to a good thing. I had long been convinced thatabout the nearest approach to the perfect job in this world, wheregood jobs are so hard to acquire, was to own a paper. All you hadto do, once you had secured your paper, was to sit back and watchthe other fellows work, and from time to time forward big chequesto the bank. Nothing could be more nicely attuned to the tastes ofa Shropshire Psmith. The glimpses I was enabled to get of theworkings of this little journal gave me the impression that ComradeWhite was not attached with any paternal fervour to _Cosy Moments_.He regarded it, I deduced, not so much as a life-work as in thelight of an investment. I assumed that Comrade White had his price,and wrote to my father, who was visiting Carlsbad at the moment, toascertain what that price might be. He cabled it to me. It wasreasonable. Now it so happens that an uncle of mine some years agoleft me a considerable number of simoleons, and though I shall notbe legally entitled actually to close in on the opulence for amatter of nine months or so, I anticipated that my father wouldhave no objection to staking me to the necessary amount on thesecurity of my little bit of money. My father has spent some timeof late hurling me at various professions, and we had agreed sometime ago that the Law was to be my long suit. Paper-owning,however, may be combined with being Lord Chancellor, and I knew hewould have no objection to my being a Napoleon of the Press on thisside. So we closed with Comrade White, and--"
There was a knock at the door, and Master Maloney entered with acard.
"Guy's waiting outside," he said.
"Mr. Stewart Waring," read Psmith. "Comrade Maloney, do you knowwhat Mahomet did when the mountain would not come to him?"
"Search me," said the office-boy indifferently.
"He went to the mountain. It was a wise thing to do. As a generalrule in life you can't beat it. Remember that, Comrade Maloney."
"Sure," said Pugsy. "Shall I send the guy in?"
"Surest thing you know, Comrade Maloney."
He turned to the assembled company.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you know how I hate to have to send youaway, but would you mind withdrawing in good order? A somewhatdelicate and private interview is in the offing. Comrade Jarvis,we will meet anon. Your services to the paper have been greatlyappreciated. If I might drop in some afternoon and inspect theremainder of your zoo--?"
"Any time you're down Groome Street way. Glad."
"I will make a point of it. Comrade Wilberfloss, would you mindremaining? As editor of this journal, you should be present. Ifthe rest of you would look in about this time to-morrow--ShowMr. Waring in, Comrade Maloney."
He took a seat.
"We are now, Comrade Wilberfloss," he said, "at a crisis in theaffairs of this journal, but I fancy we shall win through."
The door opened, and Pugsy announced Mr. Waring.
The owner of the Pleasant Street Tenements was of what is usuallycalled commanding presence. He was tall and broad, and more than alittle stout. His face was clean-shaven and curiously expressionless.Bushy eyebrows topped a pair of cold grey eyes. He walked into theroom with the air of one who is not wont to apologise for existing.There are some men who seem to fill any room in which they may be.Mr. Waring was one of these.
He set his hat down on the table without speaking. After which helooked at Mr. Wilberfloss, who shrank a little beneath his gaze.
Psmith had risen to greet him.
"Won't you sit down?" he said.
"I prefer to stand."
"Just as you wish. This is Liberty Hall."
Mr. Waring again glanced at Mr. Wilberfloss.
"What I have to say is private," he said.
"All is well," said Psmith reassuringly. "It is no stranger thatyou see before you, no mere irresponsible lounger who has butted inby chance. That is Comrade J. Fillken Wilberfloss, the editor ofthis journal."
"The editor? I understood--"
"I know what you would say. You have Comrade Windsor in your mind.He was merely acting as editor while the chief was away huntingsand-eels in the jungles of Texas. In his absence Comrade Windsorand I did our best to keep the old journal booming along, but itlacked the master-hand. But now all is well: Comrade Wilberflossis once more doing stunts at the old stand. You may speak as freelybefore him as you would before well, let us say Comrade Parker."
"Who are you, then, if this gentleman is the editor?"
"I am the proprietor."
"I understood that a Mr. White was the proprietor."
"Not so," said Psmith. "There was a time when that was the case,but not now. Things move so swiftly in New York journalisticmatters that a man may well be excused for not keeping abreast ofthe times, especially one who, like yourself, is interested inpolitics and house-ownership rather than in literature. Are yousure you won't sit down?"
Mr. Waring brought his hand down with a bang on the table, causingMr. Wilberfloss to leap a clear two inches from his chair.
"What are you doing it for?" he demanded explosively. "I tell you,you had better quit it. It isn't healthy."
Psmith shook his head.
"You are merely stating in other--and, if I may say so,inferior--words what Comrade Parker said to us. I did not object togiving up valuable time to listen to Comrade Parker. He is afascinating conversationalist, and it was a privilege to hob-nobwith him. But if you are merely intending to cover the groundcovered by him, I fear I must remind you that this is one of ourbusy days. Have you no new light to fling upon the subject?"
Mr. Waring wiped his forehead. He was playing a lost game, and hewas not the sort of man who plays lost games well. The Waring typeis dangerous when it is winning, but it is apt to crumple upagainst strong defence.
His next words proved his demoralisation.
"I'll sue you for libel," said he.
Psmith looked at him admiringly.
"Say no more," he said, "for you will never beat that. For purerichness and whimsical humour it stands alone. During the pastseven weeks you have been endeavouring in your cheery fashion toblot the editorial staff of this paper off the face of the earth ina variety of ingenious and entertaining ways; and now you proposeto sue us for libel! I wish Comrade Windsor could have heard yousay that. It would have hit him right."
Mr. Waring accepted the invitation he had refused before. He satdown.
"What are you going to do?" he said.
It was the white flag. The fight had gone out of him.
Psmith leaned back in his chair.
"I'll tell you," he said. "I've thought the whole thing out. Theright plan would be to put the complete kybosh (if I may use theexpression) on your chances of becoming an alderman. On the otherhand, I have been studying the p
apers of late, and it seems to methat it doesn't much matter who gets elected. Of course theopposition papers may have allowed their zeal to run away withthem, but even assuming that to be the case, the other candidatesappear to be a pretty fair contingent of blighters. If I were anative of New York, perhaps I might take a more fervid interest inthe matter, but as I am merely passing through your beautifullittle city, it doesn't seem to me to make any very substantialdifference who gets in. To be absolutely candid, my view of thething is this. If the People are chumps enough to elect you, thenthey deserve you. I hope I don't hurt your feelings in any way. Iam merely stating my own individual opinion."
Mr. Waring made no remark.
"The only thing that really interests me," resumed Psmith, "is thematter of these tenements. I shall shortly be leaving this countryto resume the strangle-hold on Learning which I relinquished at thebeginning of the Long Vacation. If I were to depart withoutbringing off improvements down Pleasant Street way, I shouldn't beable to enjoy my meals. The startled cry would go round Cambridge:'Something is the matter with Psmith. He is off his feed. Heshould try Blenkinsop's Balm for the Bilious.' But no balm would dome any good. I should simply droop and fade slowly away like aneglected lily. And you wouldn't like that, Comrade Wilberfloss,would you?"
Mr. Wilberfloss, thus suddenly pulled into the conversation, againleaped in his seat.
"What I propose to do," continued Psmith, without waiting for ananswer, "is to touch you for the good round sum of five thousandand three dollars."
Mr. Waring half rose.
"Five thousand dollars!"
"Five thousand and three dollars," said Psmith. "It may possiblyhave escaped your memory, but a certain minion of yours, one J.Repetto, utterly ruined a practically new hat of mine. If you thinkthat I can afford to come to New York and scatter hats about as ifthey were mere dross, you are making the culminating error of amisspent life. Three dollars are what I need for a new one. Thebalance of your cheque, the five thousand, I propose to apply tomaking those tenements fit for a tolerably fastidious pig to livein."
"Five thousand!" cried Mr. Waring. "It's monstrous."
"It isn't," said Psmith. "It's more or less of a minimum. I havemade inquiries. So out with the good old cheque-book, and let's allbe jolly."
"I have no cheque-book with me."
"_I_ have," said Psmith, producing one from a drawer. "Cross outthe name of my bank, substitute yours, and fate cannot touch us."
Mr. Waring hesitated for a moment, then capitulated. Psmithwatched, as he wrote, with an indulgent and fatherly eye.
"Finished?" he said. "Comrade Maloney."
"Youse hollering fer me?" asked that youth, appearing at the door.
"Bet your life I am, Comrade Maloney. Have you ever seen an untamedmustang of the prairie?"
"Nope. But I've read about dem."
"Well, run like one down to Wall Street with this cheque, and payit in to my account at the International Bank."
Pugsy disappeared.
"Cheques," said Psmith, "have been known to be stopped. Who knowsbut what, on reflection, you might not have changed your mind?"
"What guarantee have I," asked Mr. Waring, "that these attacks onme in your paper will stop?"
"If you like," said Psmith, "I will write you a note to thateffect. But it will not be necessary. I propose, with ComradeWilberfloss's assistance, to restore _Cosy Moments_ to its old style.Some days ago the editor of Comrade Windsor's late daily papercalled up on the telephone and asked to speak to him. I explainedthe painful circumstances, and, later, went round and hob-nobbedwith the great man. A very pleasant fellow. He asks to re-engageComrade Windsor's services at a pretty sizeable salary, so, as faras our prison expert is concerned, all may be said to be well. Hehas got where he wanted. _Cosy Moments_ may therefore ease up a bit.If, at about the beginning of next month, you should hear adeafening squeal of joy ring through this city, it will be theinfants of New York and their parents receiving the news that _CosyMoments_ stands where it did. May I count on your services, ComradeWilberfloss? Excellent. I see I may. Then perhaps you would notmind passing the word round among Comrades Asher, Waterman, and therest of the squad, and telling them to burnish their brains and beready to wade in at a moment's notice. I fear you will have apretty tough job roping in the old subscribers again, but it can bedone. I look to you, Comrade Wilberfloss. Are you on?"
Mr. Wilberfloss, wriggling in his chair, intimated that he was.
CONCLUSION
IT was a drizzly November evening. The streets of Cambridge were acompound of mud, mist, and melancholy. But in Psmith's rooms thefire burned brightly, the kettle droned, and all, as the proprietorhad just observed, was joy, jollity, and song. Psmith, in pyjamasand a college blazer, was lying on the sofa. Mike, who had beenplaying football, was reclining in a comatose state in an arm-chairby the fire.
"How pleasant it would be," said Psmith dreamily, "if all ourfriends on the other side of the Atlantic could share this verypeaceful moment with us! Or perhaps not quite all. Let us say,Comrade Windsor in the chair over there, Comrades Brady and Maloneyon the table, and our old pal Wilberfloss sharing the floor with B.Henderson Asher, Bat Jarvis, and the cats. By the way, I think itwould be a graceful act if you were to write to Comrade Jarvis fromtime to time telling him how your Angoras are getting on. Heregards you as the World's Most Prominent Citizen. A line from youevery now and then would sweeten the lad's existence."
Mike stirred sleepily in his chair.
"What?" he said drowsily.
"Never mind, Comrade Jackson. Let us pass lightly on. I am filledwith a strange content to-night. I may be wrong, but it seems to methat all is singularly to de good, as Comrade Maloney would put it.Advices from Comrade Windsor inform me that that prince ofblighters, Waring, was rejected by an intelligent electorate. Thosekeen, clear-sighted citizens refused to vote for him to an extentthat you could notice without a microscope. Still, he has oneconsolation. He owns what, when the improvements are completed,will be the finest and most commodious tenement houses in New York.Millionaires will stop at them instead of going to the Plaza. Areyou asleep, Comrade Jackson?"
"Um-m," said Mike.
"That is excellent. You could not be better employed. Keeplistening. Comrade Windsor also stated--as indeed did the sportingpapers--that Comrade Brady put it all over friend Eddie Wood,administering the sleep-producer in the eighth round. Myauthorities are silent as to whether or not the lethal blow was ahalf-scissor hook, but I presume such to have been the case. TheKid is now definitely matched against Comrade Garvin for thechampionship, and the experts seem to think that he should win. Heis a stout fellow, is Comrade Brady, and I hope he wins through. Hewill probably come to England later on. When he does, we must showhim round. I don't think you ever met him, did you, ComradeJackson?"
"Ur-r," said Mike.
"Say no more," said Psmith. "I take you."
He reached out for a cigarette.
"These," he said, comfortably, "are the moments in life to which welook back with that wistful pleasure. What of my boyhood at Eton?Do I remember with the keenest joy the brain-tourneys in the oldform-room, and the bally rot which used to take place on the Fourthof June? No. Burned deeply into my memory is a certain hot bath Itook after one of the foulest cross-country runs that ever occurredoutside Dante's Inferno. So with the present moment. This peacefulscene, Comrade Jackson, will remain with me when I have forgottenthat such a person as Comrade Repetto ever existed. These are thereal _Cosy Moments_. And while on that subject you will be glad tohear that the little sheet is going strong. The man Wilberfloss isa marvel in his way. He appears to have gathered in the majority ofthe old subscribers again. Hopping mad but a brief while ago, theynow eat out of his hand. You've really no notion what a feeling ofquiet pride it gives you owning a paper. I try not to show it, butI seem to myself to be looking down on the world from some loftypeak. Yesterday night, when I was looking down from the peakwithout a cap and gown, a proctor slid up. To-da
y I had to dig downinto my jeans for a matter of two plunks. But what of it? Lifemust inevitably be dotted with these minor tragedies. I do notrepine. The whisper goes round, 'Psmith bites the bullet, andwears a brave smile.' Comrade Jackson--"
A snore came from the chair.
Psmith sighed. But he did not repine. He bit the bullet. His eyesclosed.
Five minutes later a slight snore came from the sofa, too.The man behind _Cosy Moments_ slept.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends