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

When we dived into Sixth Avenue for a space at Thirty-third Street, did he dive, too? He did. And when we turned into Forty-second Street, there he was. I tell you, Comrade Windsor, leeches were aloof, and burrs nonadhesive compared with that tall-shaped-hatted blighter.”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember, as you came to the entrance of this place, somebody knocking against you?”

“Yes, there was a pretty big crush in the entrance.”

“There was; but not so big as all that. There was plenty of room for this merchant to pass if he had wished. Instead of which he butted into you. I happened to be waiting for just that, so I managed to attach myself to his wrist with some vim and give it a fairly hefty wrench. The paper was inside his hand.”

Billy was leaning forward with a pale face.

“Jove!” he muttered.

“That about sums it up,” said Psmith.

Billy snatched the paper from the table and extended it towards him.

“Here,” he said feverishly, “you take it. Gum, I never thought I was such a mutt! I’m not fit to take charge of a toothpick. Fancy me not being on the watch for something of that sort. I guess I was so tickled with myself at the thought of having got the thing, that it never struck me they might try for it. But I’m through. No more for me. You’re the man in charge now.”

Psmith shook his head.

“These stately compliments,” he said, “do my old heart good, but I fancy I know a better plan. It happened that I chanced to have my eye on the blighter in the tall-shaped hat, and so was enabled to land him among the ribstones; but who knows but that in the crowd on Broadway there may not lurk other, unidentified blighters in equally tall-shaped hats, one of whom may work the same sleight-of-hand speciality on me? It was not that you were not capable of taking care of that paper: it was simply that you didn’t happen to spot the man. Now observe me closely, for what follows is an exhibition of Brain.”

He paid the bill, and they went out into the entrance hall of the hotel. Psmith, sitting down at a table, placed the paper in an envelope and addressed it to himself at the address of Cosy Moments. After which, he stamped the envelope and dropped it into the letterbox at the back of the hall.

“And now, Comrade Windsor,” he said, “let us stroll gently homewards down the Great White Way. What matter though it be fairly stiff with low-browed bravoes in tall-shaped hats? They cannot harm us. From me, if they search me thoroughly, they may scoop a matter of eleven dollars, a watch, two stamps, and a packet of chewing gum. Whether they would do any better with you I do not know. At any rate, they wouldn’t get that paper; and that’s the main thing.”

“You’re a genius,” said Billy Windsor.

“You think so?” said Psmith diffidently. “Well, well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right. Did you notice the hired ruffian in the flannel suit who just passed? He wore a baffled look, I fancy. And hark! Wasn’t that a muttered ‘Failed!’ I heard? Or was it the breeze moaning in the treetops? Tonight is a cold, disappointing night for Hired Ruffians, Comrade Windsor.”

XXIII Reductions in the Staff

The first member of the staff of Cosy Moments to arrive at the office on the following morning was Master Maloney. This sounds like the beginning of a “Plod and Punctuality,” or “How Great Fortunes have been Made” story; but, as a matter of fact, Master Maloney was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighbourhood, rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at the office at nine o’clock. It was a point of honour with him, a sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before nine-thirty. On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute, or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it.

He had only whistled a few bars of “My Little Irish Rose,” and had barely got into the first page of his story of life on the prairie when Kid Brady appeared. The Kid, as was his habit when not in training, was smoking a big black cigar. Master Maloney eyed him admiringly. The Kid, unknown to that gentleman himself, was Pugsy’s ideal. He came from the Plains; and had, indeed, once actually been a cowboy; he was a coming champion; and he could smoke black cigars. It was, therefore, without his usual well-what-is-it-now? air that Pugsy laid down his book, and prepared to converse.

“Say, Mr. Smith or Mr. Windsor about, Pugsy?” asked the Kid.

“Naw, Mr. Brady, they ain’t came yet,” replied Master Maloney respectfully.

“Late, ain’t they?”

“Sure. Mr. Windsor generally blows in before I do.”

“Wonder what’s keepin’ them.”

“P’raps, dey’ve bin put out of business,” suggested Pugsy nonchalantly.

“How’s that?”

Pugsy related the events of the previous day, relaxing something of his austere calm as he did so. When he came to the part where the Table Hill allies swooped down on the unsuspecting Three Pointers, he was almost animated.

“Say,” said the Kid approvingly, “that Smith guy’s got more grey matter under his thatch than you’d think to look at him. I⁠—”

“Comrade Brady,” said a voice in the doorway, “you do me proud.”

“Why, say,” said the Kid, turning, “I guess the laugh’s on me. I didn’t see you, Mr. Smith. Pugsy’s been tellin’ me how you sent him for the Table Hills yesterday. That was cute. It was mighty smart. But say, those guys are goin’ some, ain’t they now! Seems as if they was dead set on puttin’ you out of business.”

“Their manner yesterday, Comrade Brady, certainly suggested the presence of some sketchy outline of such an ideal in their minds. One Sam, in particular, an ebony-hued sportsman, threw himself into the task with great vim. I rather fancy he is waiting