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

large grey cat shot up like a rocket, and darted across the room. Psmith watched with silent interest.

It is hard to astonish the waiters at a New York restaurant, but when the cat performed this feat there was a squeal of surprise all round the room. Waiters rushed to and fro, futile but energetic. The cat, having secured a strong strategic position on the top of a large oil painting which hung on the far wall, was expressing loud disapproval of the efforts of one of the waiters to drive it from its post with a walking stick. The young man, seeing these manoeuvres, uttered a wrathful shout, and rushed to the rescue.

“Comrade Jackson,” said Psmith, rising, “we must be in this.”

When they arrived on the scene of hostilities, the young man had just possessed himself of the walking stick, and was deep in a complex argument with the headwaiter on the ethics of the matter. The headwaiter, a stout impassive German, had taken his stand on a point of etiquette. “Id is,” he said, “to bring gats into der grillroom vorbidden. No gendleman would gats into der grillroom bring. Der gendleman⁠—”

The young man meanwhile was making enticing sounds, to which the cat was maintaining an attitude of reserved hostility. He turned furiously on the headwaiter.

“For goodness’ sake,” he cried, “can’t you see the poor brute’s scared stiff? Why don’t you clear your gang of German comedians away, and give her a chance to come down?”

“Der gendleman⁠—” argued the headwaiter.

Psmith stepped forward and touched him on the arm.

“May I have a word with you in private?”

“Zo?”

Psmith drew him away.

“You don’t know who that is?” he whispered, nodding towards the young man.

“No gendleman he is,” asserted the headwaiter. “Der gendleman would not der gat into⁠—”

Psmith shook his head pityingly.

“These petty matters of etiquette are not for his Grace⁠—but, hush, he wishes to preserve his incognito.”

“Ingognito?”

“You understand. You are a man of the world, Comrade⁠—may I call you Freddie? You understand, Comrade Freddie, that in a man in his Grace’s position a few little eccentricities may be pardoned. You follow me, Frederick?”

The headwaiter’s eye rested upon the young man with a new interest and respect.

“He is noble?” he inquired with awe.

“He is here strictly incognito, you understand,” said Psmith warningly. The headwaiter nodded.

The young man meanwhile had broken down the cat’s reserve, and was now standing with her in his arms, apparently anxious to fight all comers in her defence. The headwaiter approached deferentially.

“Der gendleman,” he said, indicating Psmith, who beamed in a friendly manner through his eyeglass, “haf everything exblained. All will now quite satisfactory be.”

The young man looked inquiringly at Psmith, who winked encouragingly. The headwaiter bowed.

“Let me present Comrade Jackson,” said Psmith, “the pet of our English Smart Set. I am Psmith, one of the Shropshire Psmiths. This is a great moment. Shall we be moving back? We were about to order a second instalment of coffee, to correct the effects of a fatiguing day. Perhaps you would care to join us?”

“Sure,” said the alleged duke.

“This,” said Psmith, when they were seated, and the headwaiter had ceased to hover, “is a great meeting. I was complaining with some acerbity to Comrade Jackson, before you introduced your very interesting performing-animal speciality, that things in New York were too quiet, too decorous. I have an inkling, Comrade⁠—”

“Windsor’s my name.”

“I have an inkling, Comrade Windsor, that we see eye to eye on the subject.”

“I guess that’s right. I was raised in the plains, and I lived in Kentucky a while. There’s more doing there in a day than there is here in a month. Say, how did you fix it with the old man?”

“With Comrade Freddie? I have a certain amount of influence with him. He is content to order his movements in the main by my judgment. I assured him that all would be well, and he yielded.” Psmith gazed with interest at the cat, which was lapping milk from the saucer. “Are you training that animal for a show of some kind, Comrade Windsor, or is it a domestic pet?”

“I’ve adopted her. The office-boy on our paper got her away from a dog this morning, and gave her to me.”

“Your paper?”

“Cosy Moments,” said Billy Windsor, with a touch of shame.

“Cosy Moments?” said Psmith reflectively. “I regret that the bright little sheet has not come my way up to the present. I must seize an early opportunity of perusing it.”

“Don’t you do it.”

“You’ve no paternal pride in the little journal?”

“It’s bad enough to hurt,” said Billy Windsor disgustedly. “If you really want to see it, come along with me to my place, and I’ll show you a copy.”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Psmith. “Comrade Jackson, have you any previous engagement for tonight?”

“I’m not doing anything,” said Mike.

“Then let us stagger forth with Comrade Windsor. While he is loading up that basket, we will be collecting our hats.⁠ ⁠… I am not half sure, Comrade Jackson,” he added, as they walked out, “that Comrade Windsor may not prove to be the genial spirit for whom I have been searching. If you could give me your undivided company, I should ask no more. But with you constantly away, mingling with the gay throng, it is imperative that I have some solid man to accompany me in my ramblings hither and thither. It is possible that Comrade Windsor may possess the qualifications necessary for the post. But here he comes. Let us foregather with him and observe him in private life before arriving at any premature decision.”

IV Bat Jarvis

Billy Windsor lived in a single room on East Fourteenth Street. Space in New York is valuable, and the average bachelor’s apartments consist of one room with a bathroom opening off it. During the daytime this one room loses all traces of being used for sleeping purposes at night. Billy Windsor’s room was very much like a public school study. Along one wall ran a settee. At night