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

“Jimmy Garvin!” cried the third. “He can whip twenty Jimmy Garvins with his feet tied. I tell you⁠—”

“I am loath,” observed Psmith, “to interrupt this very impressive brain-barbecue, but, trivial as it may seem to you, to me there is a certain interest in this other little matter of my ruined hat. I know that it may strike you as hypersensitive of us to protest against being riddled with bullets, but⁠—”

“Well, what’s bin doin’?” inquired the Force. It was a nuisance, this perpetual harping on trifles when the deep question of the lightweight Championship of the World was under discussion, but the sooner it was attended to, the sooner it would be over.

Billy Windsor undertook to explain.

“The Three Points laid for us,” he said. “Jack Repetto was bossing the crowd. I don’t know who the rest were. The Kid put one over on to Jack Repetto’s chin, and we were asking him a few questions when the rest came back, and started into shooting. Then we got to cover quick, and you came up and they beat it.”

“That,” said Psmith, nodding, “is a very fair précis of the evening’s events. We should like you, if you will be so good, to corral this Comrade Repetto, and see that he buys me a new hat.”

“We’ll round Jack up,” said one of the policemen indulgently.

“Do it nicely,” urged Psmith. “Don’t go hurting his feelings.”

The second policeman gave it as his opinion that Jack was getting too gay. The third policeman conceded this. Jack, he said, had shown signs for some time past of asking for it in the neck. It was an error on Jack’s part, he gave his hearers to understand, to assume that the lid was completely off the great city of New York.

“Too blamed fresh he’s gettin’,” the trio agreed. They could not have been more disapproving if they had been prefects at Haileybury and Mr. Repetto a first-termer who had been detected in the act of wearing his cap on the back of his head.

They seemed to think it was too bad of Jack.

“The wrath of the Law,” said Psmith, “is very terrible. We will leave the matter, then, in your hands. In the meantime, we should be glad if you would direct us to the nearest Subway station. Just at the moment, the cheerful lights of the Great White Way are what I seem to chiefly need.”

Thus ended the opening engagement of the campaign, seemingly in a victory for the Cosy Moments army. Billy Windsor, however, shook his head.

“We’ve got mighty little out of it,” he said.

“The victory,” said Psmith, “was not bloodless. Comrade Brady’s ear, my hat⁠—these are not slight casualties. On the other hand, surely we are one up? Surely we have gained ground? The elimination of Comrade Repetto from the scheme of things in itself is something. I know few men I would not rather meet in a lonely road than Comrade Repetto. He is one of Nature’s sandbaggers. Probably the thing crept upon him slowly. He started, possibly, in a merely tentative way by slugging one of the family circle. His nurse, let us say, or his young brother. But, once started, he is unable to resist the craving. The thing grips him like dram-drinking. He sandbags now not because he really wants to, but because he cannot help himself. To me there is something consoling in the thought that Comrade Repetto will no longer be among those present.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I should imagine that a benevolent Law will put him away in his little cell for at least a brief spell.”

“Not on your life,” said Billy. “He’ll prove an alibi.”

Psmith’s eyeglass dropped out of his eye. He replaced it, and gazed, astonished, at Billy.

“An alibi? When three keen-eyed men actually caught him at it?”

“He can find thirty toughs to swear he was five miles away.”

“And get the court to believe it?” said Psmith.

“Sure,” said Billy disgustedly. “You don’t catch them hurting a gangsman unless they’re pushed against the wall. The politicians don’t want the gangs in gaol, especially as the Aldermanic elections will be on in a few weeks. Did you ever hear of Monk Eastman?”

“I fancy not, Comrade Windsor. If I did, the name has escaped me. Who was this cleric?”

“He was the first boss of the East Side gang, before Kid Twist took it on.”

“Yes?”

“He was arrested dozens of times, but he always got off. Do you know what he said once, when they pulled him for thugging a fellow out in New Jersey?”

“I fear not, Comrade Windsor. Tell me all.”

“He said, ‘You’re arresting me, huh? Say, you want to look where you’re goin’; I cut some ice in this town. I made half the big politicians in New York!’ That was what he said.”

“His small talk,” said Psmith, “seems to have been bright and well-expressed. What happened then? Was he restored to his friends and his relations?”

“Sure, he was. What do you think? Well, Jack Repetto isn’t Monk Eastman, but he’s in with Spider Reilly, and the Spider’s in with the men behind. Jack’ll get off.”

“It looks to me, Comrade Windsor,” said Psmith thoughtfully, “as if my stay in this great city were going to cost me a small fortune in hats.”

Billy’s prophecy proved absolutely correct. The police were as good as their word. In due season they rounded up the impulsive Mr. Repetto, and he was haled before a magistrate. And then, what a beautiful exhibition of brotherly love and auld-lang-syne camaraderie was witnessed! One by one, smirking sheepishly, but giving out their evidence with unshaken earnestness, eleven greasy, wandering-eyed youths mounted the witness stand and affirmed on oath that at the time mentioned dear old Jack had been making merry in their company in a genial and law-abiding fashion, many, many blocks below the scene of the regrettable assault. The magistrate discharged the prisoner, and the prisoner, meeting Billy and Psmith in the street outside, leered triumphantly