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

“Surest t’ing you know,” replied Pugsy with some fervour. “I’d take me goil to de Bronx Zoo.”

“Your girl?” said Psmith inquiringly. “I had heard no inkling of this, Comrade Maloney. I had always imagined you one of those strong, rugged, blood-and-iron men who were above the softer emotions. Who is she?”

“Aw, she’s a kid,” said Pugsy. “Her pa runs a delicatessen shop down our street. She ain’t a bad mutt,” added the ardent swain. “I’m her steady.”

“See that I have a card for the wedding, Comrade Maloney,” said Psmith, “and in the meantime take her to the Bronx, as you suggest.”

“Won’t youse be wantin’ me today.”

“Not today. You need a holiday. Unflagging toil is sapping your physique. Go up and watch the animals, and remember me very kindly to the Peruvian Llama, whom friends have sometimes told me I resemble in appearance. And if two dollars would in any way add to the gaiety of the jaunt⁠—”

“Sure t’ing. T’anks, boss.”

“It occurred to me,” said Psmith, when he had gone, “that the probable first move of any enterprising Three Pointer who invaded this office would be to knock Comrade Maloney on the head to prevent his announcing him. Comrade Maloney’s services are too valuable to allow him to be exposed to unnecessary perils. Any visitors who call must find their way in for themselves. And now to work. Work, the what’s-its-name of the thingummy and the thing-um-a-bob of the what-d’you-call-it.”

For about a quarter of an hour the only sound that broke the silence of the room was the scratching of Psmith’s pen and the musical expectoration of Messrs. Otto and Jarvis. Finally Psmith leaned back in his chair with a satisfied expression, and spoke.

“While, as of course you know, Comrade Jarvis,” he said, “there is no agony like the agony of literary composition, such toil has its compensations. The editorial I have just completed contains its measure of balm. Comrade Otto will bear me out in my statement that there is a subtle joy in the manufacture of the well-formed phrase. Am I not right, Comrade Otto?”

The long one gazed appealingly at Mr. Jarvis, who spoke for him.

“He’s a bit shy on handin’ out woids, is Otto,” he said.

Psmith nodded.

“I understand. I am a man of few words myself. All great men are like that. Von Moltke, Comrade Otto, and myself. But what are words? Action is the thing. That is the cry. Action. If that is Comrade Otto’s forte, so much the better, for I fancy that action rather than words is what we may be needing in the space of about a quarter of a minute. At least, if the footsteps I hear without are, as I suspect, those of our friends of the Three Points.”

Jarvis and Long Otto turned towards the door. Psmith was right. Someone was moving stealthily in the outer office. Judging from the sound, more than one person.

“It is just as well,” said Psmith softly, “that Comrade Maloney is not at his customary post. Now, in about a quarter of a minute, as I said⁠—Aha!”

The handle of the door began to revolve slowly and quietly. The next moment three figures tumbled into the room. It was evident that they had not expected to find the door unlocked, and the absence of resistance when they applied their weight had had surprising effects. Two of the three did not pause in their career till they cannoned against the table. The third, who was holding the handle, was more fortunate.

Psmith rose with a kindly smile to welcome his guests.

“Why, surely!” he said in a pleased voice. “I thought I knew the face. Comrade Repetto, this is a treat. Have you come bringing me a new hat?”

The white-haired leader’s face, as he spoke, was within a few inches of his own. Psmith’s observant eye noted that the bruise still lingered on the chin where Kid Brady’s uppercut had landed at their previous meeting.

“I cannot offer you all seats,” he went on, “unless you care to dispose yourselves upon the tables. I wonder if you know my friend, Mr. Bat Jarvis? And my friend, Mr. L. Otto? Let us all get acquainted on this merry occasion.”

The three invaders had been aware of the presence of the great Bat and his colleague for some moments, and the meeting seemed to be causing them embarrassment. This may have been due to the fact that both Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Otto had produced and were toying meditatively with distinctly ugly-looking pistols.

Mr. Jarvis spoke.

“Well,” he said, “what’s doin’?”

Mr. Repetto, to whom the remark was directly addressed, appeared to have some difficulty in finding a reply. He shuffled his feet, and looked at the floor. His two companions seemed equally at a loss.

“Goin’ to start any rough stuff?” inquired Mr. Jarvis casually.

“The cigars are on the table,” said Psmith hospitably. “Draw up your chairs, and let’s all be jolly. I will open the proceedings with a song.”

In a rich baritone, with his eyeglass fixed the while on Mr. Repetto, he proceeded to relieve himself of the first verse of “I only know I love thee.”

“Chorus, please,” he added, as he finished. “Come along, Comrade Repetto. Why this shrinking coyness? Fling out your chest, and cut loose.”

But Mr. Repetto’s eye was fastened on Mr. Jarvis’s revolver. The sight apparently had the effect of quenching his desire for song.

“ ‘Lov’ muh, ahnd ther world is⁠—ah⁠—mine!’ ” concluded Psmith.

He looked round the assembled company.

“Comrade Otto,” he observed, “will now recite that pathetic little poem ‘Baby’s Sock is now a Blue-bag.’ Pray, gentlemen, silence for Comrade Otto.”

He looked inquiringly at the long youth, who remained mute. Psmith clicked his tongue regretfully.

“Comrade Jarvis,” he said, “I fear that as a smoking-concert this is not going to be a success. I understand, however. Comrade Repetto and his colleagues have come here on business, and nothing will make them forget it. Typical New York men of affairs, they close their minds to all influences that might lure them from their business. Let us get on, then. What