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

winning, but it is apt to crumple up against strong defence.

His next words proved his demoralisation.

“I’ll sue you for libel,” said he.

Psmith looked at him admiringly.

“Say no more,” he said, “for you will never beat that. For pure richness and whimsical humour it stands alone. During the past seven weeks you have been endeavouring in your cheery fashion to blot the editorial staff of this paper off the face of the earth in a variety of ingenious and entertaining ways; and now you propose to sue us for libel! I wish Comrade Windsor could have heard you say that. It would have hit him right.”

Mr. Waring accepted the invitation he had refused before. He sat down.

“What are you going to do?” he said.

It was the white flag. The fight had gone out of him.

Psmith leaned back in his chair.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’ve thought the whole thing out. The right plan would be to put the complete kybosh (if I may use the expression) on your chances of becoming an alderman. On the other hand, I have been studying the papers of late, and it seems to me that it doesn’t much matter who gets elected. Of course the opposition papers may have allowed their zeal to run away with them, but even assuming that to be the case, the other candidates appear to be a pretty fair contingent of blighters. If I were a native of New York, perhaps I might take a more fervid interest in the matter, but as I am merely passing through your beautiful little city, it doesn’t seem to me to make any very substantial difference who gets in. To be absolutely candid, my view of the thing is this. If the People are chumps enough to elect you, then they deserve you. I hope I don’t hurt your feelings in any way. I am merely stating my own individual opinion.”

Mr. Waring made no remark.

“The only thing that really interests me,” resumed Psmith, “is the matter of these tenements. I shall shortly be leaving this country to resume the stranglehold on Learning which I relinquished at the beginning of the Long Vacation. If I were to depart without bringing off improvements down Pleasant Street way, I shouldn’t be able to enjoy my meals. The startled cry would go round Cambridge: ‘Something is the matter with Psmith. He is off his feed. He should try Blenkinsop’s Balm for the Bilious.’ But no balm would do me any good. I should simply droop and fade slowly away like a neglected lily. And you wouldn’t like that, Comrade Wilberfloss, would you?”

Mr. Wilberfloss, thus suddenly pulled into the conversation, again leaped in his seat.

“What I propose to do,” continued Psmith, without waiting for an answer, “is to touch you for the good round sum of five thousand and three dollars.”

Mr. Waring half rose.

“Five thousand dollars!”

“Five thousand and three dollars,” said Psmith. “It may possibly have escaped your memory, but a certain minion of yours, one J. Repetto, utterly ruined a practically new hat of mine. If you think that I can afford to come to New York and scatter hats about as if they were mere dross, you are making the culminating error of a misspent life. Three dollars are what I need for a new one. The balance of your cheque, the five thousand, I propose to apply to making those tenements fit for a tolerably fastidious pig to live in.”

“Five thousand!” cried Mr. Waring. “It’s monstrous.”

“It isn’t,” said Psmith. “It’s more or less of a minimum. I have made inquiries. So out with the good old chequebook, and let’s all be jolly.”

“I have no chequebook with me.”

“I have,” said Psmith, producing one from a drawer. “Cross out the name of my bank, substitute yours, and fate cannot touch us.”

Mr. Waring hesitated for a moment, then capitulated. Psmith watched, as he wrote, with an indulgent and fatherly eye.

“Finished?” he said. “Comrade Maloney.”

“Youse hollering fer me?” asked that youth, appearing at the door.

“Bet your life I am, Comrade Maloney. Have you ever seen an untamed mustang of the prairie?”

“Nope. But I’ve read about dem.”

“Well, run like one down to Wall Street with this cheque, and pay it in to my account at the International Bank.”

Pugsy disappeared.

“Cheques,” said Psmith, “have been known to be stopped. Who knows but what, on reflection, you might not have changed your mind?”

“What guarantee have I,” asked Mr. Waring, “that these attacks on me in your paper will stop?”

“If you like,” said Psmith, “I will write you a note to that effect. But it will not be necessary. I propose, with Comrade Wilberfloss’s assistance, to restore Cosy Moments to its old style. Some days ago the editor of Comrade Windsor’s late daily paper called up on the telephone and asked to speak to him. I explained the painful circumstances, and, later, went round and hobnobbed with the great man. A very pleasant fellow. He asks to re-engage Comrade Windsor’s services at a pretty sizeable salary, so, as far as our prison expert is concerned, all may be said to be well. He has got where he wanted. Cosy Moments may therefore ease up a bit. If, at about the beginning of next month, you should hear a deafening squeal of joy ring through this city, it will be the infants of New York and their parents receiving the news that Cosy Moments stands where it did. May I count on your services, Comrade Wilberfloss? Excellent. I see I may. Then perhaps you would not mind passing the word round among Comrades Asher, Waterman, and the rest of the squad, and telling them to burnish their brains and be ready to wade in at a moment’s notice. I fear you will have a pretty tough job roping in the old subscribers again, but it can be done. I look to you, Comrade Wilberfloss. Are you on?”

Mr. Wilberfloss, wriggling in his chair, intimated that he was.

Conclusion

It was a drizzly November evening. The streets of