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

had left off. Psmith was not discouraged.

“Ah,” he said tolerantly, “the fierce rush of New York life. How it wipes from the retina of today the image impressed on it but yesterday. Are you with me, Comrade Jarvis?”

The cat expert concentrated himself on the cat’s paws without replying.

“A fine animal,” said Psmith, adjusting his eyeglass. “To which particular family of the Felis Domestica does that belong? In colour it resembles a Neapolitan ice more than anything.”

Mr. Jarvis’s manner became unfriendly.

“Say, what do youse want? That’s straight ain’t it? If youse want to buy a boid or a snake why don’t youse say so?”

“I stand corrected,” said Psmith. “I should have remembered that time is money. I called in here partly on the strength of being a colleague and side-partner of Comrade Windsor⁠—”

“Mr. Windsor! De gent what caught my cat?”

“The same⁠—and partly in order that I might make two very eminent cat-fanciers acquainted. This,” he said, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the silently protesting Mike, “is Comrade Jackson, possibly the best known of our English cat-fanciers. Comrade Jackson’s stud of Angoras is celebrated wherever the King’s English is spoken, and in Hoxton.”

Mr. Jarvis rose, and, having inspected Mike with silent admiration for a while, extended a well-buttered hand towards him. Psmith looked on benevolently.

“What Comrade Jackson does not know about cats,” he said, “is not knowledge. His information on Angoras alone would fill a volume.”

“Say,”⁠—Mr. Jarvis was evidently touching on a point which had weighed deeply upon him⁠—“why’s catnip called catnip?”

Mike looked at Psmith helplessly. It sounded like a riddle, but it was obvious that Mr. Jarvis’s motive in putting the question was not frivolous. He really wished to know.

“The word, as Comrade Jackson was just about to observe,” said Psmith, “is a corruption of catmint. Why it should be so corrupted I do not know. But what of that? The subject is too deep to be gone fully into at the moment. I should recommend you to read Comrade Jackson’s little brochure on the matter. Passing lightly on from that⁠—”

“Did youse ever have a cat dat ate beetles?” inquired Mr. Jarvis.

“There was a time when many of Comrade Jackson’s felidae supported life almost entirely on beetles.”

“Did they git thin?”

Mike felt that it was time, if he was to preserve his reputation, to assert himself.

“No,” he replied firmly.

Mr. Jarvis looked astonished.

“English beetles,” said Psmith, “don’t make cats thin. Passing lightly⁠—”

“I had a cat oncest,” said Mr. Jarvis, ignoring the remark and sticking to his point, “dat ate beetles and got thin and used to tie itself into knots.”

“A versatile animal,” agreed Psmith.

“Say,” Mr. Jarvis went on, now plainly on a subject near to his heart, “dem beetles is fierce. Sure. Can’t keep de cats off of eatin’ dem, I can’t. First t’ing you know dey’ve swallowed dem, and den dey gits thin and ties theirselves into knots.”

“You should put them into strait-waistcoats,” said Psmith. “Passing, however, lightly⁠—”

“Say, ever have a cross-eyed cat?”

“Comrade Jackson’s cats,” said Psmith, “have happily been almost free from strabismus.”

“Dey’s lucky, cross-eyed cats is. You has a cross-eyed cat, and not’in’ don’t never go wrong. But, say, was dere ever a cat wit one blue eye and one yaller one in your bunch? Gum, it’s fierce when it’s like dat. It’s a real skiddoo, is a cat wit one blue eye and one yaller one. Puts you in bad, surest t’ing you know. Oncest a guy give me a cat like dat, and first t’ing you know I’m in bad all round. It wasn’t till I give him away to de cop on de corner and gets me one dat’s cross-eyed dat I lifts de skiddoo off of me.”

“And what happened to the cop?” inquired Psmith, interested.

“Oh, he got in bad, sure enough,” said Mr. Jarvis without emotion. “One of de boys what he’d pinched and had sent to de Island once lays for him and puts one over him wit a blackjack. Sure. Dat’s what comes of havin’ a cat wit one blue eye and one yaller one.”

Mr. Jarvis relapsed into silence. He seemed to be meditating on the inscrutable workings of Fate. Psmith took advantage of the pause to leave the cat topic and touch on matter of more vital import.

“Tense and exhilarating as is this discussion of the optical peculiarities of cats,” he said, “there is another matter on which, if you will permit me, I should like to touch. I would hesitate to bore you with my own private troubles, but this is a matter which concerns Comrade Windsor as well as myself, and I know that your regard for Comrade Windsor is almost an obsession.”

“How’s that?”

“I should say,” said Psmith, “that Comrade Windsor is a man to whom you give the glad hand.”

“Sure. He’s to the good, Mr. Windsor is. He caught me cat.”

“He did. By the way, was that the one that used to tie itself into knots?”

“Nope. Dat was anudder.”

“Ah! However, to resume. The fact is, Comrade Jarvis, we are much persecuted by scoundrels. How sad it is in this world! We look to every side. We look north, east, south, and west, and what do we see? Mainly scoundrels. I fancy you have heard a little about our troubles before this. In fact, I gather that the same scoundrels actually approached you with a view to engaging your services to do us in, but that you very handsomely refused the contract.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Jarvis, dimly comprehending. “A guy comes to me and says he wants you and Mr. Windsor put through it, but I gives him de t’run down. ‘Nuttin’ done,’ I says. ‘Mr. Windsor caught me cat.’ ”

“So I was informed,” said Psmith. “Well, failing you, they went to a gentleman of the name of Reilly.”

“Spider Reilly?”

“You have hit it, Comrade Jarvis. Spider Reilly, the lessee and manager of the Three Points gang.”

“Dose T’ree Points, dey’re to de bad. Dey’re fresh.”

“It is too true, Comrade Jarvis.”

“Say,” went on Mr. Jarvis, waxing wrathful at the recollection, “what do youse t’ink dem fresh stiffs done de udder night. Started some rough woik in