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

overcome him again, for he grasped the lamppost, and, sliding slowly to the ground, sat there motionless.

The Kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to be wrathful and vindictive. He was the first of the three to reach the elusive Mr. Repetto, and if that worthy had happened to be standing instead of sitting it might have gone hard with him. But the Kid was not the man to attack a fallen foe. He contented himself with brushing the dust off his person and addressing a richly abusive flow of remarks to Mr. Repetto.

Under the rays of the lamp it was possible to discern more closely the features of the blackjack exponent. There was a subtle but noticeable resemblance to those of Mr. Bat Jarvis. Apparently the latter’s oiled forelock, worn low over the forehead, was more a concession to the general fashion prevailing in gang circles than an expression of personal taste. Mr. Repetto had it, too. In his case it was almost white, for the fallen warrior was an albino. His eyes, which were closed, had white lashes and were set as near together as Nature had been able to manage without actually running them into one another. His underlip protruded and drooped. Looking at him, one felt instinctively that no judging committee of a beauty contest would hesitate a moment before him.

It soon became apparent that the light of the lamp, though bestowing the doubtful privilege of a clearer view of Mr. Repetto’s face, held certain disadvantages. Scarcely had the staff of Cosy Moments reached the faint yellow pool of light, in the centre of which Mr. Repetto reclined, than, with a suddenness which caused them to leap into the air, there sounded from the darkness down the road the crack-crack-crack of a revolver. Instantly from the opposite direction came other shots. Three bullets flicked grooves in the roadway almost at Billy’s feet. The Kid gave a sudden howl. Psmith’s hat, suddenly imbued with life, sprang into the air and vanished, whirling into the night.

The thought did not come to them consciously at the moment, there being little time to think, but it was evident as soon as, diving out of the circle of light into the sheltering darkness, they crouched down and waited for the next move, that a somewhat skilful ambush had been effected. The other members of the gang, who had fled with such remarkable speed, had by no means been eliminated altogether from the game. While the questioning of Mr. Repetto had been in progress, they had crept back, unperceived except by Mr. Repetto himself. It being too dark for successful shooting, it had become Mr. Repetto’s task to lure his captors into the light, which he had accomplished with considerable skill.

For some minutes the battle halted. There was dead silence. The circle of light was empty now. Mr. Repetto had vanished. A tentative shot from nowhere ripped through the air close to where Psmith lay flattened on the pavement. And then the pavement began to vibrate and give out a curious resonant sound. To Psmith it conveyed nothing, but to the opposing army it meant much. They knew it for what it was. Somewhere⁠—it might be near or far⁠—a policeman had heard the shots, and was signalling for help to other policemen along the line by beating on the flagstones with his nightstick, the New York constable’s substitute for the London police-whistle.

The noise grew, filling the still air. From somewhere down the road sounded the ring of running feet.

“De cops!” cried a voice. “Beat it!”

Next moment the night was full of clatter. The gang was “beating it.”

Psmith rose to his feet and dusted his clothes ruefully. For the first time he realised the horrors of war. His hat had gone for ever. His trousers could never be the same again after their close acquaintance with the pavement.

The rescue party was coming up at the gallop.

The New York policeman may lack the quiet dignity of his London rival, but he is a hustler.

“What’s doing?”

“Nothing now,” said the disgusted voice of Billy Windsor from the shadows. “They’ve beaten it.”

The circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a general rendezvous. Three grey-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men with keen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolver in one hand, nightstick in the other. Psmith, hatless and dusty, joined them. Billy Windsor and the Kid, the latter bleeding freely from his left ear, the lobe of which had been chipped by a bullet, were the last to arrive.

“What’s bin the rough house?” inquired one of the policemen, mildly interested.

“Do you know a sportsman of the name of Repetto?” inquired Psmith.

“Jack Repetto! Sure.”

“He belongs to the Three Points,” said another intelligent officer, as one naming some fashionable club.

“When next you see him,” said Psmith, “I should be obliged if you would use your authority to make him buy me a new hat. I could do with another pair of trousers, too; but I will not press the trousers. A new hat, is, however, essential. Mine has a six-inch hole in it.”

“Shot at you, did they?” said one of the policemen, as who should say, “Dash the lads, they’re always up to some of their larks.”

“Shot at us!” burst out the ruffled Kid. “What do you think’s bin happening? Think an aeroplane ran into my ear and took half of it off? Think the noise was somebody opening bottles of pop? Think those guys that sneaked off down the road was just training for a Marathon?”

“Comrade Brady,” said Psmith, “touches the spot. He⁠—”

“Say, are you Kid Brady?” inquired one of the officers. For the first time the constabulary had begun to display any real animation.

“Reckoned I’d seen you somewhere!” said another. “You licked Cyclone Al. all right, Kid, I hear.”

“And who but a bonehead thought he wouldn’t?” demanded the third warmly. “He could whip a dozen Cyclone Al.’s in the same evening with his eyes shut.”

“He’s the next champeen,” admitted the first speaker.

“If he puts it over Jimmy Garvin,” argued the