P G Wodehouse - Psmith Journalist Page 4

  A faint smile appeared upon Psmith's face.

  "And is Comrade Windsor in there, too, in the middle of them?"

  "Nope. Mr. Windsor's out to lunch."

  "Comrade Windsor knows his business. Why did you let them in?"

  "Sure, dey just butted in," said Master Maloney complainingly. "I was sittin' here, readin' me book, when de foist of de guys blew in. 'Boy,' says he, 'is de editor in?' 'Nope,' I says. 'I'll go in an' wait,' says he. 'Nuttin' doin',' says I. 'Nix on de goin' in act.' I might as well have saved me breat'. In he butts, and he's in der now. Well, in about t'ree minutes along comes another gazebo. 'Boy,' says he, 'is de editor in?' 'Nope,' I says. 'I'll wait,' says he lightin' out for de door. Wit dat I sees de proposition's too fierce for muh. I can't keep dese big husky guys out if dey's for buttin' in. So when de rest of de bunch comes along, I don't try to give dem de t'run down. I says, 'Well, gents,' I says, 'it's up to youse. De editor ain't in, but if youse wants to join de giddy t'rong, push t'roo inter de inner room. I can't be boddered.'"

  "And what more could you have said?" agreed Psmith approvingly. "Tell me, Comrade Maloney, what was the general average aspect of these determined spirits?"

  "Huh?"

  "Did they seem to you to be gay, lighthearted? Did they carol snatches of song as they went? Or did they appear to be looking for some one with a hatchet?"

  "Dey was hoppin'-mad, de whole bunch of dem."

  "As I suspected. But we must not repine, Comrade Maloney. These trifling contretemps are the penalties we pay for our high journalistic aims. I will interview these merchants. I fancy that with the aid of the Diplomatic Smile and the Honeyed Word I may manage to pull through. It is as well, perhaps, that Comrade Windsor is out. The situation calls for the handling of a man of delicate culture and nice tact. Comrade Windsor would probably have endeavoured to clear the room with a chair. If he should arrive during the seance, Comrade Maloney, be so good as to inform him of the state of affairs, and tell him not to come in. Give him my compliments, and tell him to go out and watch the snowdrops growing in Madison Square Garden."

  "Sure," said Master Maloney.

  Then Psmith, having smoothed the nap of his hat and flicked a speck of dust from his coat-sleeve, walked to the door of the inner room and went in.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE HONEYED WORD

  Master Maloney's statement that "about 'steen visitors" had arrived in addition to Messrs. Asher, Waterman, and the Rev. Philpotts proved to have been due to a great extent to a somewhat feverish imagination. There were only five men in the room.

  As Psmith entered, every eye was turned upon him. To an outside spectator he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressed Daniel introduced into a den of singularly irritable lions. Five pairs of eyes were smouldering with a long-nursed resentment. Five brows were corrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was the simple majesty of Psmith's demeanour that for a moment there was dead silence. Not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped in thought, to the editorial chair. Stillness brooded over the room as he carefully dusted that piece of furniture, and, having done so to his satisfaction, hitched up the knees of his trousers and sank gracefully into a sitting position.

  This accomplished, he looked up and started. He gazed round the room.

  "Ha! I am observed!" he murmured.

  The words broke the spell. Instantly, the five visitors burst simultaneously into speech.

  "Are you the acting editor of this paper?"

  "I wish to have a word with you, sir."

  "Mr. Windsor, I presume?"

  "Pardon me!"

  "I should like a few moments' conversation."

  The start was good and even; but the gentleman who said "Pardon me!" necessarily finished first with the rest nowhere.

  Psmith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gaze through his eye-glass.

  "Are you Mr. Windsor, sir, may I ask?" inquired the favoured one.

  The others paused for the reply.

  "Alas! no," said Psmith with manly regret.

  "Then who are you?"

  "I am Psmith."

  There was a pause.

  "Where is Mr. Windsor?"

  "He is, I fancy, champing about forty cents' worth of lunch at some neighbouring hostelry."

  "When will he return?"

  "Anon. But how much anon I fear I cannot say."

  The visitors looked at each other.

  "This is exceedingly annoying," said the man who had said "Pardon me!" "I came for the express purpose of seeing Mr. Windsor."

  "So did I," chimed in the rest. "Same here. So did I."

  Psmith bowed courteously.

  "Comrade Windsor's loss is my gain. Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Are you on the editorial staff of this paper?"

  "I am acting sub-editor. The work is not light," added Psmith gratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round, 'Can Psmith get through it all? Will his strength support his unquenchable spirit?' But I stagger on. I do not repine."

  "Then maybe you can tell me what all this means?" said a small round gentleman who so far had done only chorus work.

  "If it is in my power to do so, it shall be done, Comrade--I have not the pleasure of your name."

  "My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whose name you doubtless know."

  "Correct me if I am wrong," said Psmith, "but I should say it, also, was Waterman."

  "Luella Granville Waterman, sir," said the little man proudly. Psmith removed his eye-glass, polished it, and replaced it in his eye. He felt that he must run no risk of not seeing clearly the husband of one who, in his opinion, stood alone in literary circles as a purveyor of sheer bilge.

  "My wife," continued the little man, producing an envelope and handing it to Psmith, "has received this extraordinary communication from a man signing himself W. Windsor. We are both at a loss to make head or tail of it."

  Psmith was reading the letter.

  "It seems reasonably clear to me," he said.

  "It is an outrage. My wife has been a contributor to this journal from its foundation. Her work has given every satisfaction to Mr. Wilberfloss. And now, without the slightest warning, comes this peremptory dismissal from W. Windsor. Who is W. Windsor? Where is Mr. Wilberfloss?"

  The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they all wanted to know: Who was W. Windsor? Where was Mr. Wilberfloss?

  "I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts, sir," said a cadaverous- looking man with pale blue eyes and a melancholy face. "I have contributed 'Moments of Meditation' to this journal for a very considerable period of time."

  "I have read your page with the keenest interest," said Psmith. "I may be wrong, but yours seems to me work which the world will not willingly let die."

  The Reverend Edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile.

  "And yet," continued Psmith, "I gather that Comrade Windsor, on the other hand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease. It is these strange contradictions, these clashings of personal taste, which make up what we call life. Here we have, on the one hand--"

  A man with a face like a walnut, who had hitherto lurked almost unseen behind a stout person in a serge suit, bobbed into the open, and spoke his piece.

  "Where's this fellow Windsor? W. Windsor. That's the man we want to see. I've been working for this paper without a break, except when I had the mumps, for four years, and I've reason to know that my page was as widely read and appreciated as any in New York. And now up comes this Windsor fellow, if you please, and tells me in so many words the paper's got no use for me."

  "These are life's tragedies," murmured Psmith.

  "What's he mean by it? That's what I want to know. And that's what these gentlemen want to know--See here--"

  "I am addressing--?" said Psmith.

  "Asher's my name. B. Henderson Asher. I write 'Moments of Mirth.'"

  A look almost of excitement came into Psmith's face, such a look as a visitor
to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some great national monument. That he should be privileged to look upon the author of "Moments of Mirth" in the flesh, face to face, was almost too much.

  "Comrade Asher," he said reverently, "may I shake your hand?"

  The other extended his hand with some suspicion.

  "Your 'Moments of Mirth,'" said Psmith, shaking it, "have frequently reconciled me to the toothache."

  He reseated himself.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "this is a painful case. The circumstances, as you will readily admit when you have heard all, are peculiar. You have asked me where Mr. Wilberfloss is. I do not know."

  "You don't know!" exclaimed Mr. Waterman.

  "I don't know. You don't know. They," said Psmith, indicating the rest with a wave of the hand, "don't know. Nobody knows. His locality is as hard to ascertain as that of a black cat in a coal-cellar on a moonless night. Shortly before I joined this journal, Mr. Wilberfloss, by his doctor's orders, started out on a holiday, leaving no address. No letters were to be forwarded. He was to enjoy complete rest. Where is he now? Who shall say? Possibly legging it down some rugged slope in the Rockies, with two bears and a wild cat in earnest pursuit. Possibly in the midst of some Florida everglade, making a noise like a piece of meat in order to snare crocodiles. Possibly in Canada, baiting moose-traps. We have no data."

  Silent consternation prevailed among the audience. Finally the Rev. Edwin T. Philpotts was struck with an idea.

  "Where is Mr. White?" he asked.

  The point was well received.

  "Yes, where's Mr. Benjamin White?" chorused the rest.

  Psmith shook his head.

  "In Europe. I cannot say more."

  The audience's consternation deepened.

  "Then, do you mean to say," demanded Mr. Asher, "that this fellow Windsor's the boss here, that what he says goes?"

  Psmith bowed.

  "With your customary clear-headedness, Comrade Asher, you have got home on the bull's-eye first pop. Comrade Windsor is indeed the boss. A man of intensely masterful character, he will brook no opposition. I am powerless to sway him. Suggestions from myself as to the conduct of the paper would infuriate him. He believes that radical changes are necessary in the programme of Cosy Moments, and he means to put them through if it snows. Doubtless he would gladly consider your work if it fitted in with his ideas. A snappy account of a glove-fight, a spine-shaking word-picture of a railway smash, or something on those lines, would be welcomed. But--"

  "I have never heard of such a thing," said Mr. Waterman indignantly.

  Psmith sighed.

  "Some time ago," he said, "--how long it seems!--I remember saying to a young friend of mine of the name of Spiller, 'Comrade Spiller, never confuse the unusual with the impossible.' It is my guiding rule in life. It is unusual for the substitute-editor of a weekly paper to do a Captain Kidd act and take entire command of the journal on his own account; but is it impossible? Alas no. Comrade Windsor has done it. That is where you, Comrade Asher, and you, gentlemen, have landed yourselves squarely in the broth. You have confused the unusual with the impossible."

  "But what is to be done?" cried Mr. Asher.

  "I fear that there is nothing to be done, except wait. The present regime is but an experiment. It may be that when Comrade Wilberfloss, having dodged the bears and eluded the wild cat, returns to his post at the helm of this journal, he may decide not to continue on the lines at present mapped out. He should be back in about ten weeks."

  "Ten weeks!"

  "I fancy that was to be the duration of his holiday. Till then my advice to you gentlemen is to wait. You may rely on me to keep a watchful eye upon your interests. When your thoughts tend to take a gloomy turn, say to yourselves, 'All is well. Psmith is keeping a watchful eye upon our interests.'"

  "All the same, I should like to see this W. Windsor," said Mr. Asher.

  Psmith shook his head.

  "I shouldn't," he said. "I speak in your best interests. Comrade Windsor is a man of the fiercest passions. He cannot brook interference. Were you to question the wisdom of his plans, there is no knowing what might not happen. He would be the first to regret any violent action, when once he had cooled off, but would that be any consolation to his victim? I think not. Of course, if you wish it, I could arrange a meeting--"

  Mr. Asher said no, he thought it didn't matter.

  "I guess I can wait," he said.

  "That," said Psmith approvingly, "is the right spirit. Wait. That is the watch-word. And now," he added, rising, "I wonder if a bit of lunch somewhere might not be a good thing? We have had an interesting but fatiguing little chat. Our tissues require restoring. If you gentlemen would care to join me--"

  Ten minutes later the company was seated in complete harmony round a table at the Knickerbocker. Psmith, with the dignified bonhomie of a seigneur of the old school, was ordering the wine; while B. Henderson Asher, brimming over with good-humour, was relating to an attentive circle an anecdote which should have appeared in his next instalment of "Moments of Mirth."

  CHAPTER IX

  FULL STEAM AHEAD

  When Psmith returned to the office, he found Billy Windsor in the doorway, just parting from a thick-set young man, who seemed to be expressing his gratitude to the editor for some good turn. He was shaking him warmly by the hand.

  Psmith stood aside to let him pass.

  "An old college chum, Comrade Windsor?" he asked.

  "That was Kid Brady."

  "The name is unfamiliar to me. Another contributor?"

  "He's from my part of the country--Wyoming. He wants to fight any one in the world at a hundred and thirty-three pounds."

  "We all have our hobbies. Comrade Brady appears to have selected a somewhat exciting one. He would find stamp-collecting less exacting."

  "It hasn't given him much excitement so far, poor chap," said Billy Windsor. "He's in the championship class, and here he has been pottering about New York for a month without being able to get a fight. It's always the way in this rotten East," continued Billy, warming up as was his custom when discussing a case of oppression and injustice. "It's all graft here. You've got to let half a dozen brutes dip into every dollar you earn, or you don't get a chance. If the kid had a manager, he'd get all the fights he wanted. And the manager would get nearly all the money. I've told him that we will back him up."

  "You have hit it, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith with enthusiasm. "Cosy Moments shall be Comrade Brady's manager. We will give him a much-needed boost up in our columns. A sporting section is what the paper requires more than anything."

  "If things go on as they've started, what it will require still more will be a fighting-editor. Pugsy tells me you had visitors while I was out."

  "A few," said Psmith. "One or two very entertaining fellows. Comrades Asher, Philpotts, and others. I have just been giving them a bite of lunch at the Knickerbocker."

  "Lunch!"

  "A most pleasant little lunch. We are now as brothers. I fear I have made you perhaps a shade unpopular with our late contributors; but these things must be. We must clench our teeth and face them manfully. If I were you, I think I should not drop in at the house of Comrade Asher and the rest to take pot-luck for some little time to come. In order to soothe the squad I was compelled to curse you to some extent."

  "Don't mind me."

  "I think I may say I didn't."

  "Say, look here, you must charge up the price of that lunch to the office. Necessary expenses, you know."

  "I could not dream of doing such a thing, Comrade Windsor. The whole affair was a great treat to me. I have few pleasures. Comrade Asher alone was worth the money. I found his society intensely interesting. I have always believed in the Darwinian theory. Comrade Asher confirmed my views."

  They went into the inner office. Psmith removed his hat and coat.

  "And now once more to work," he said. "Psmith the flaneur of Fifth Avenue ceases to exist. In his place we find Psmit
h the hard-headed sub-editor. Be so good as to indicate a job of work for me, Comrade Windsor. I am champing at my bit."

  Billy Windsor sat down, and lit his pipe.

  "What we want most," he said thoughtfully, "is some big topic. That's the only way to get a paper going. Look at Everybody's Magazine. They didn't amount to a row of beans till Lawson started his 'Frenzied Finance' articles. Directly they began, the whole country was squealing for copies. Everybody's put up their price from ten to fifteen cents, and now they lead the field."

  "The country must squeal for Cosy Moments," said Psmith firmly. "I fancy I have a scheme which may not prove wholly scaly. Wandering yesterday with Comrade Jackson in a search for Fourth Avenue, I happened upon a spot called Pleasant Street. Do you know it?"

  Billy Windsor nodded.

  "I went down there once or twice when I was a reporter. It's a beastly place."

  "It is a singularly beastly place. We went into one of the houses."

  "They're pretty bad."

  "Who owns them?"

  "I don't know. Probably some millionaire. Those tenement houses are about as paying an investment as you can have."

  "Hasn't anybody ever tried to do anything about them?"

  "Not so far as I know. It's pretty difficult to get at these fellows, you see. But they're fierce, aren't they, those houses!"

  "What," asked Psmith, "is the precise difficulty of getting at these merchants?"

  "Well, it's this way. There are all sorts of laws about the places, but any one who wants can get round them as easy as falling off a log. The law says a tenement house is a building occupied by more than two families. Well, when there's a fuss, all the man has to do is to clear out all the families but two. Then, when the inspector fellow comes along, and says, let's say, 'Where's your running water on each floor? That's what the law says you've got to have, and here are these people having to go downstairs and out of doors to fetch their water supplies,' the landlord simply replies, 'Nothing doing. This isn't a tenement house at all. There are only two families here.' And when the fuss has blown over, back come the rest of the crowd, and things go on the same as before."