Psmith, Journalist - P. G. Wodehouse (i am reading a book TXT) 📗

gazebo what calls himself Waterman and about ’steen more of dem.”

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 someone 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 séance, 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.

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 eyeglass.

“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 subeditor. 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 eyeglass, 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