The Prince and Betty by P. G. Wodehouse (always you kirsty moseley .TXT) 📗

"Why?" enquired Smith.

"Because," said Mr. Parker.

He looked at Smith, and smiled slowly, an ingratiating smile. Smith did not respond.

"I do not completely gather your meaning," he said. "I fear I must ask you to hand it to me with still more breezy frankness. Do you speak from purely friendly motives? Are you advising me to discontinue the series because you fear that it will damage the literary reputation of the paper? Do you speak solely as a literary connoisseur? Or are there other reasons?"

Mr. Parker leaned forward.

"The gentleman whom I represent—"

"Then this is no matter of your own personal taste? There is another?"

"See here, I'm representing a gentleman who shall be nameless, and I've come on his behalf to tip you off to quit this game. These articles of yours are liable to cause him inconvenience."

"Financial? Do you mean that he may possibly have to spend some of his spare doubloons in making Broster Street fit to live in?"

"It's not so much the money. It's the publicity. There are reasons why he would prefer not to have it made too public that he's the owner of the tenements down there."

"Well, he knows what to do. If he makes Broster Street fit for a not-too-fastidious pig to live in—"

Mr. Parker coughed. A tentative cough, suggesting that the situation was now about to enter upon a more delicate phase.

"Now, see here, sir," he said, "I'm going to be frank. I'm going to put my cards on the table, and see if we can't fix something up. Now, see here. We don't want any unpleasantness. You aren't in this business for your health, eh? You've got your living to make, same as everybody else, I guess. Well, this is how it stands. To a certain extent, I don't mind owning, since we're being frank with one another, you've got us—that's to say, this gentleman I'm speaking of—in a cleft stick. Frankly, that Broster Street story of yours has attracted attention—I saw it myself in two Sunday papers—and if there's going to be any more of them—Well, now, here's a square proposition. How much do you want to stop those articles? That's straight. I've been frank with you, and I want you to be frank with me. What's your figure? Name it, and if you don't want the earth I guess we needn't quarrel."

He looked expectantly at Smith. Smith, gazing sadly at him through his monocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old Roman senator dealing with the enemies of the Republic.

"Comrade Parker," he said, "I fear that you have allowed your intercourse with this worldly city to undermine your moral sense. It is useless to dangle rich bribes before the editorial eyes. Peaceful Moments cannot be muzzled. You doubtless mean well, according to your somewhat murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at fifteen cents weekly. From the hills of Maine to the Everglades of Florida, from Portland, Oregon, to Melonsquashville, Tennessee, one sentence is in every man's mouth. And what is that sentence? I give you three guesses. You give it up? It is this: 'Peaceful Moments cannot be muzzled!'"

Mr. Parker rose.

"Nothing doing, then?" he said.

"Nothing."

Mr. Parker picked up his hat.

"See here," he said, a grating note in his voice, hitherto smooth and conciliatory, "I've no time to fool away talking to you. I've given you your chance. Those stories are going to be stopped. And if you've any sense in you at all, you'll stop them yourself before you get hurt. That's all I've got to say, and that goes."

He went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that added emphasis to his words.

"All very painful and disturbing," murmured Smith. "Comrade Brown!" he called.

Betty came in.

"Did our late visitor bite a piece out of you on his way out? He was in the mood to do something of the sort."

"He seemed angry," said Betty.

"He was angry," said Smith. "Do you know what has happened, Comrade Brown? With your very first contribution to the paper you have hit the bull's-eye. You have done the state some service. Friend Parker came as the representative of the owner of those Broster Street houses. He wanted to buy us off. We've got them scared, or he wouldn't have shown his hand with such refreshing candor. Have you any engagements at present?"

"I was just going out to lunch, if you could spare me."

"Not alone. This lunch is on the office. As editor of this journal I will entertain you, if you will allow me, to a magnificent banquet. Peaceful Moments is grateful to you. Peaceful Moments," he added, with the contented look the Far West editor must have worn as the bullet came through the window, "is, owing to you, going some now."

When they returned from lunch, and reentered the outer office, Pugsy Maloney, raising his eyes for a moment from his book, met them with the information that another caller had arrived and was waiting in the inner room.

"Dere's a guy in dere waitin' to see youse," he said, jerking his head towards the door.

"Yet another guy? This is our busy day. Did he give a name?"

"Says his name's Maude," said Master Maloney, turning a page.

"Maude!" cried Betty, falling back.

Smith beamed.

"Old John Maude!" he said. "Great! I've been wondering what on earth he's been doing with himself all this time. Good-old John! You'll like him," he said, turning, and stopped abruptly, for he was speaking to the empty air. Betty had disappeared.

"Where's Miss Brown, Pugsy?" he said. "Where did she go?"

Pugsy vouchsafed another jerk of the head, in the direction of the outer door.

"She's beaten it," he said. "I seen her make a break for de stairs. Guess she's forgotten to remember somet'ing," he added indifferently, turning once more to his romance of prairie life. "Goils is bone-heads."