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

sticks and appearing nightly as the star in a music hall sketch entitled “A Fight for Honour.” His reminiscences were appearing weekly in a Sunday paper. It was this that gave Psmith the idea of publishing Kid Brady’s autobiography in Cosy Moments, an idea which made the Kid his devoted adherent from then on. Like most pugilists, the Kid had a passion for bursting into print, and his life had been saddened up to the present by the refusal of the press to publish his reminiscences. To appear in print is the fighter’s accolade. It signifies that he has arrived. Psmith extended the hospitality of page four of Cosy Moments to Kid Brady, and the latter leaped at the chance. He was grateful to Psmith for not editing his contributions. Other pugilists, contributing to other papers, groaned under the supervision of a member of the staff who cut out their best passages and altered the rest into Addisonian English. The readers of Cosy Moments got Kid Brady raw.

“Comrade Brady,” said Psmith to Billy, “has a singularly pure and pleasing style. It is bound to appeal powerfully to the many-headed. Listen to this bit. Our hero is fighting Battling Jack Benson in that eminent artist’s native town of Louisville, and the citizens have given their native son the Approving Hand, while receiving Comrade Brady with chilly silence. Here is the Kid on the subject: ‘I looked around that house, and I seen I hadn’t a friend in it. And then the gong goes, and I says to myself how I has one friend, my poor old mother way out in Wyoming, and I goes in and mixes it, and then I seen Benson losing his goat, so I ups with an awful half-scissor hook to the plexus, and in the next round I seen Benson has a chunk of yellow, and I gets in with a haymaker and I picks up another sleep-producer from the floor and hands it him, and he takes the count all right.’⁠ ⁠… Crisp, lucid, and to the point. That is what the public wants. If this does not bring Comrade Garvin up to the scratch, nothing will.”

But the feature of the paper was the “Tenement” series. It was late summer now, and there was nothing much going on in New York. The public was consequently free to take notice. The sale of Cosy Moments proceeded briskly. As Psmith had predicted, the change of policy had the effect of improving the sales to a marked extent. Letters of complaint from old subscribers poured into the office daily. But, as Billy Windsor complacently remarked, they had paid their subscriptions, so that the money was safe whether they read the paper or not. And, meanwhile, a large new public had sprung up and was growing every week. Advertisements came trooping in. Cosy Moments, in short, was passing through an era of prosperity undreamed of in its history.

“Young blood,” said Psmith nonchalantly, “young blood. That is the secret. A paper must keep up to date, or it falls behind its competitors in the race. Comrade Wilberfloss’s methods were possibly sound, but too limited and archaic. They lacked ginger. We of the younger generation have our fingers more firmly on the public pulse. We read off the public’s unspoken wishes as if by intuition. We know the game from A to Z.”

At this moment Master Maloney entered, bearing in his hand a card.

“ ‘Francis Parker’?” said Billy, taking it. “Don’t know him.”

“Nor I,” said Psmith. “We make new friends daily.”

“He’s a guy with a tall-shaped hat,” volunteered Master Maloney, “an’ he’s wearin’ a dude suit an’ shiny shoes.”

“Comrade Parker,” said Psmith approvingly, “has evidently not been blind to the importance of a visit to Cosy Moments. He has dressed himself in his best. He has felt, rightly, that this is no occasion for the old straw hat and the baggy flannels. I would not have it otherwise. It is the right spirit. Shall we give him audience, Comrade Windsor?”

“I wonder what he wants.”

“That,” said Psmith, “we shall ascertain more clearly after a personal interview. Comrade Maloney, show the gentleman in. We can give him three and a quarter minutes.”

Pugsy withdrew.

Mr. Francis Parker proved to be a man who might have been any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. He had a smooth, clean-shaven face, and a cat-like way of moving. As Pugsy had stated in effect, he wore a tailcoat, trousers with a crease which brought a smile of kindly approval to Psmith’s face, and patent-leather boots of pronounced shininess. Gloves and a tall hat, which he carried, completed an impressive picture.

He moved softly into the room.

“I wished to see the editor.”

Psmith waved a hand towards Billy.

“The treat has not been denied you,” he said. “Before you is Comrade Windsor, the Wyoming crackerjack. He is our editor. I myself⁠—I am Psmith⁠—though but a subordinate, may also claim the title in a measure. Technically, I am but a subeditor; but such is the mutual esteem in which Comrade Windsor and I hold each other that we may practically be said to be inseparable. We have no secrets from each other. You may address us both impartially. Will you sit for a space?”

He pushed a chair towards the visitor, who seated himself with the care inspired by a perfect trouser-crease. There was a momentary silence while he selected a spot on the table on which to place his hat.

“The style of the paper has changed greatly, has it not, during the past few weeks?” he said. “I have never been, shall I say, a constant reader of Cosy Moments, and I may be wrong. But is not its interest in current affairs a recent development?”

“You are very right,” responded Psmith. “Comrade Windsor, a man of alert and restless temperament, felt that a change was essential if Cosy Moments was to lead public thought. Comrade Wilberfloss’s methods were good in their way. I have no quarrel with Comrade Wilberfloss.