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

“Shamrock Hall?” said Psmith.

“Dat’s right. Shamrock Hall. Got gay, dey did, wit some of de Table Hillers. Say, I got it in for dem gazebos, sure I have. Surest t’ing you know.”

Psmith beamed approval.

“That,” he said, “is the right spirit. Nothing could be more admirable. We are bound together by our common desire to check the ever-growing spirit of freshness among the members of the Three Points. Add to that the fact that we are united by a sympathetic knowledge of the manners and customs of cats, and especially that Comrade Jackson, England’s greatest fancier, is our mutual friend, and what more do we want? Nothing.”

“Mr. Jackson’s to de good,” assented Mr. Jarvis, eyeing Mike in friendly fashion.

“We are all to de good,” said Psmith. “Now the thing I wished to ask you is this. The office of the paper on which I work was until this morning securely guarded by Comrade Brady, whose name will be familiar to you.”

“De Kid?”

“On the bull’s-eye, as usual, Comrade Jarvis. Kid Brady, the coming lightweight champion of the world. Well, he has unfortunately been compelled to leave us, and the way into the office is consequently clear to any sandbag specialist who cares to wander in. Matters connected with the paper have become so poignant during the last few days that an inrush of these same specialists is almost a certainty, unless⁠—and this is where you come in.”

“Me?”

“Will you take Comrade Brady’s place for a few days?”

“How’s that?”

“Will you come in and sit in the office for the next day or so and help hold the fort? I may mention that there is money attached to the job. We will pay for your services. How do we go, Comrade Jarvis?”

Mr. Jarvis reflected but a brief moment.

“Why, sure,” he said. “Me fer dat. When do I start?”

“Excellent, Comrade Jarvis. Nothing could be better. I am obliged. I rather fancy that the gay band of Three Pointers who will undoubtedly visit the offices of Cosy Moments in the next few days, probably tomorrow, are due to run up against the surprise of their lives. Could you be there at ten tomorrow morning?”

“Sure t’ing. I’ll bring me canister.”

“I should,” said Psmith. “In certain circumstances one canister is worth a flood of rhetoric. Till tomorrow, then, Comrade Jarvis. I am very much obliged to you.”

“Not at all a bad hour’s work,” said Psmith complacently, as they turned out of Groome Street. “A vote of thanks to you, Comrade Jackson, for your invaluable assistance.”

“It strikes me I didn’t do much,” said Mike with a grin.

“Apparently, no. In reality, yes. Your manner was exactly right. Reserved, yet not haughty. Just what an eminent cat-fancier’s manner should be. I could see that you made a pronounced hit with Comrade Jarvis. By the way, if you are going to show up at the office tomorrow, perhaps it would be as well if you were to look up a few facts bearing on the feline world. There is no knowing what thirst for information a night’s rest may not give Comrade Jarvis. I do not presume to dictate, but if you were to make yourself a thorough master of the subject of catnip, for instance, it might quite possibly come in useful.”

Mr. Jarvis was as good as his word. On the following morning, at ten o’clock to the minute, he made his appearance at the office of Cosy Moments, his forelock more than usually well oiled in honour of the occasion, and his right coat pocket bulging in a manner that betrayed to the initiated eye the presence of the faithful “canister.” With him, in addition to his revolver, he brought a long, thin young man who wore under his brown tweed coat a blue-and-red striped jersey. Whether he brought him as an ally in case of need or merely as a kindred soul with whom he might commune during his vigil, was not ascertained.

Pugsy, startled out of his wonted calm by the arrival of this distinguished company, observed the pair, as they passed through into the inner office, with protruding eyes, and sat speechless for a full five minutes. Psmith received the newcomers in the editorial sanctum with courteous warmth. Mr. Jarvis introduced his colleague.

“Thought I’d bring him along. Long Otto’s his monaker.”

“You did very rightly, Comrade Jarvis,” Psmith assured him. “Your unerring instinct did not play you false when it told you that Comrade Otto would be as welcome as the flowers in May. With Comrade Otto I fancy we shall make a combination which will require a certain amount of tackling.”

Mr. Jarvis confirmed this view. Long Otto, he affirmed, was no rube, but a scrapper from Biffville-on-the-Slosh. The hardiest hooligan would shrink from introducing roughhouse proceedings into a room graced by the combined presence of Long Otto and himself.

“Then,” said Psmith, “I can go about my professional duties with a light heart. I may possibly sing a bar or two. You will find cigars in that box. If you and Comrade Otto will select one apiece and group yourselves tastefully about the room in chairs, I will start in to hit up a slightly spicy editorial on the coming election.”

Mr. Jarvis regarded the paraphernalia of literature on the table with interest. So did Long Otto, who, however, being a man of silent habit, made no comment. Throughout the séance and the events which followed it he confined himself to an occasional grunt. He seemed to lack other modes of expression. A charming chap, however.

“Is dis where youse writes up pieces fer de paper?” inquired Mr. Jarvis, eyeing the table.

“It is,” said Psmith. “In Comrade Windsor’s pre-dungeon days he was wont to sit where I am sitting now, while I bivouacked over there at the smaller table. On busy mornings you could hear our brains buzzing in Madison Square Garden. But wait! A thought strikes me.” He called for Pugsy.

“Comrade Maloney,” he said, “if the Editorial Staff of this paper were to give you a