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

celebrated imitation of Horatius. We had better be moving. Our luggage, fortunately, is small. Merely Comrade Gooch. If you will get through the skylight, I will pass him up to you.”

Mr. Gooch, with much verbal embroidery, stated that he would not go. Psmith acted promptly. Gripping the struggling rent collector round the waist, and ignoring his frantic kicks as mere errors in taste, he lifted him to the trapdoor, whence the head, shoulders and arms of Billy Windsor protruded into the room. Billy collected the collector, and then Psmith turned to Pugsy.

“Comrade Maloney.”

“Huh?”

“Have I your ear?”

“Huh?”

“Are you listening till you feel that your ears are the size of footballs? Then drink this in. For weeks you have been praying for a chance to show your devotion to the great cause; or if you haven’t, you ought to have been. That chance has come. You alone can save us. In a sense, of course, we do not need to be saved. They will find it hard to get at us, I fancy, on the roof. But it ill befits the dignity of the editorial staff of a great New York weekly to roost like pigeons for any length of time; and consequently it is up to you.”

“Shall I go for de cops, Mr. Smith?”

“No, Comrade Maloney, I thank you. I have seen the cops in action, and they did not impress me. We do not want allies who will merely shake their heads at Comrade Repetto and the others, however sternly. We want someone who will swoop down upon these merry roisterers, and, as it were, soak to them good. Do you know where Dude Dawson lives?”

The light of intelligence began to shine in Master Maloney’s face. His eye glistened with respectful approval. This was strategy of the right sort.

“Dude Dawson? Nope. But I can ask around.”

“Do so, Comrade Maloney. And when found, tell him that his old college chum, Spider Reilly, is here. He will not be able to come himself, I fear, but he can send representatives.”

“Sure.”

“That’s all, then. Go downstairs with a gay and jaunty air, as if you had no connection with the old firm at all. Whistle a few lively bars. Make careless gestures. Thus shall you win through. And now it would be no bad idea, I fancy, for me to join the rest of the brains of the paper up aloft. Off you go, Comrade Maloney. And, in passing, don’t take a week about it. Leg it with all the speed you possess.”

Pugsy vanished, and Psmith closed the door behind him. Inspection revealed the fact that it possessed no lock. As a barrier it was useless. He left it ajar, and, jumping up, gripped the edge of the opening in the roof and pulled himself through.

Billy Windsor was seated comfortably on Mr. Gooch’s chest a few feet away. By his side was his big stick. Psmith possessed himself of this, and looked about him. The examination was satisfactory. The trapdoor appeared to be the only means of access to the roof, and between their roof and that of the next house there was a broad gulf.

“Practically impregnable,” he murmured. “Only one thing can dish us, Comrade Windsor; and that is if they have the sense to get on to the roof next door and start shooting. Even in that case, however, we have cover in the shape of the chimneys. I think we may fairly say that all is well. How are you getting along? Has the patient responded at all?”

“Not yet,” said Billy. “But he’s going to.”

“He will be in your charge. I must devote myself exclusively to guarding the bridge. It is a pity that the trap has not got a bolt this side. If it had, the thing would be a perfect picnic. As it is, we must leave it open. But we mustn’t expect everything.”

Billy was about to speak, but Psmith suddenly held up his hand warningly. From the room below came a sound of feet.

For a moment the silence was tense. Then from Mr. Gooch’s lips there escaped a screech.

“This way! They’re up⁠—”

The words were cut short as Billy banged his hand over the speaker’s mouth. But the thing was done.

“On top de roof,” cried a voice. “Dey’ve beaten it for de roof.”

The chair rasped over the floor. Feet shuffled. And then, like a jack-in-the-box, there popped through the opening a head and shoulders.

XXI The Battle of Pleasant Street

The new arrival was a young man with a shock of red hair, an ingrowing Roman nose, and a mouth from which force or the passage of time had removed three front teeth. He held on to the edges of the trap with his hands, and stared in a glassy manner into Psmith’s face, which was within a foot of his own.

There was a momentary pause, broken by an oath from Mr. Gooch, who was still undergoing treatment in the background.

“Aha!” said Psmith genially. “Historic picture. ‘Doctor Cook discovers the North Pole.’ ”

The redheaded young man blinked. The strong light of the open air was trying to his eyes.

“Youse had better come down,” he observed coldly. “We’ve got youse.”

“And,” continued Psmith, unmoved, “is instantly handed a gumdrop by his faithful Eskimo.”

As he spoke, he brought the stick down on the knuckles which disfigured the edges of the trap. The intruder uttered a howl and dropped out of sight. In the room below there were whisperings and mutterings, growing gradually louder till something resembling coherent conversation came to Psmith’s ears, as he knelt by the trap making meditative billiard shots with the stick at a small pebble.

“Aw g’wan! Don’t be a quitter!”

“Who’s a quitter?”

“Youse is a quitter. Get on top de roof. He can’t hoit youse.”

“De guy’s gotten a big stick.”

Psmith nodded appreciatively.

“I and Roosevelt,” he murmured.

A somewhat baffled silence on the part of the attacking force was followed by further conversation.

“Gum! some guy’s got to go up.”

Murmur of assent from the audience.

A voice, in inspired tones: “Let Sam do it!”

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