 CHAPTER XXIII The first member of the staff of Cozy Moments to arrive at the office on the following morning was Master Maloney. This sounds like the beginning of a plod and punctuality or how great fortunes have been made story, but as a matter of fact, Master Maloney was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighborhood rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at the office around nine o'clock. It was a point of honor with him, a sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before nine thirty. On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it. He had only whistled a few bars of my little Irish rose and had barely gotten into the first page of his story on Life of the Prairie when Kid Brady appeared. The kid, as was his habit when not in training, was smoking a big black cigar. Master Maloney eyed him admiringly. The kid, unknown to that gentleman himself, was Pugsy's ideal. He had come from the plains and had indeed once actually been a cowboy. He was a coming champion and he could smoke black cigars. It was therefore without his usual, well, what is it now, air, that Pugsy laid down his book and prepared to converse. Say, Mr. Smith or Mr. Windsor about Pugsy? asked the kid. Now, Mr. Brady, they ain't came yet, replied Master Maloney respectfully. Late, ain't they? Sure. Mr. Windsor generally blows in before I do. Wonder what's keeping them? Perhaps they'd been put out of business, suggested Pugsy nonchalantly. How's that? Pugsy related the events of the previous day, relaxing something it was austere or calm as he did so. When he came to the part where the Table Hill allies swooped down on the unsuspecting three pointers, he was almost animated. Say, said the kid approvingly, that Smith guy's got more matter under his thatch than you think to look at him. I, come out, Brady, said a voice in the doorway. You do me proud. Why, say, said the kid, turning, I guess that laughs on me. I didn't see you, Mr. Smith. Pugsy's been telling me how you sent him for the Table Hills yesterday. That was cute. That was mighty smart. But say, those guys are going some, ain't they now? Seems as if they was dead set on putting you out of business. Their manner yesterday, called my Brady, certainly suggested the presence of some sketchy outline of such an ideal in their minds. One Sam, in particular, and many huge sportsmen, threw himself into the task with great vim. I'd rather fence he is waiting for us with his revolver to this moment. But why worry? Here we are, safe and sound, and Comrade Windsor may be expected to arrive at any moment. I see, Comrade Brady, that you have been matched against one Eddie Wood. It's about that I wanted to see you, Mr. Smith. Say, now that things have been and brushed up, so what with these gang guys laying for you the way they're doing, I guess you need me around here, isn't that right? Say the word, and I'll call off this Eddie Wood fight. Comrade Brady, since Smith was some enthusiasm, I call that a sporting offer. I'm very much obliged, but we mustn't stand in your way. If you eliminate this Comrade Windsor, they will have to give you a chance against Jimmy Garvin, won't they? I guess that's right, sir, said the kid. Eddie stayed nineteen rounds against Jimmy, and if I can put him away, it gets me in a line with Jimmy, and he can't sidestep me. Then go in and win, Comrade Brady. We shall miss you. It will be as if a ray of sunshine had been removed from the office. But you mustn't throw a chance away. We shall be all right, I think. I'll train at White Plains, said the kid. That ain't far from here, so I'll be pretty near in case I'm wanted. Hello? Who's here? He pointed to the door. A small boy was standing there, holding a note. Mr. Smith? Sir, to you, said Smith courteously. P. Smith? The same. This is your lucky day. Cop at Jefferson Market, give me this to take to use. A cop in Jefferson Market, repeated Smith. I did not know I had friends among the constabulary there. Why, it's from Comrade Windsor. He opened the envelope and read the letter. Thanks, he said, giving the boy a quarter dollar. It was apparent the kid was politely endeavoring to veil his curiosity. Master Maloney had no such scruples. What's in the letter, boss? He inquired. The letter, Comrade Maloney, is from our Mr. Windsor, and relates in terse language the following facts. That our editor last night hit a policeman in the eye, and that he was sentenced this morning to thirty days on Blackwells Island. He's the guy admitted Master Maloney approvingly. What's that? Said the kid. Mr. Windsor had been punching cops. What's he been doing that for? He gives no clue. I must go and find out. Could you help Comrade Maloney mind the shop for a few moments while I pushed round to Jefferson Market and make inquiries? Sure, but say fancy Mr. Windsor cutting loose that way. Said the kid, admiringly. The Jefferson Market police court is a little way downtown near Washington Square. It did not take Smith long to reach it, and by the judicious expenditure of a few dollars, he was unable to obtain an interview with Billy in a back room. The chief editor of Cozy Moments was seated on a bench, looking upon the world through a pair of much blackened eyes. His general appearance was disheveled. He had the air of a man who had been caught in the machinery. Hello, Smith, he said. You got my note all right, then? Smith looked at him, concerned. Comrade Windsor, he said, what on earth has been happening to you? Oh, that's all right, said Billy. That's nothing. Nothing? You look as if you've been run over by a motor car. The cops did that, said Billy, without any apparent resentment. They always turned nasty if you put up a fight. It was a fool to do it, I suppose, but I got so mad. They knew perfectly well I had nothing to do with any pool room downstairs. Smith's eyeglass dropped from his eye. Pool room, Comrade Windsor? Yes. The house where I lived was raided last night. It seems that some gamblers have been running a pool room in the ground floor. Why the cops should have thought I had anything to do with it when I was sleeping peacefully upstairs is more than I can understand. Anyway, at about three in the morning there was the dickens of a banging at my door. I got up to see what it was doing and found a couple of policemen there. They told me to come along with them to the station. I asked what on earth for. I might have known it was no use arguing with the New York cop. They said they had been tipped off that there was a pool room being run in the house and that they were cleaning up the house and if I wanted to say anything I'd better say it to the magistrate. I said all right, I'd put on some clothes and come with them. They said they couldn't wait about what I put on clothes. I said I wasn't going to travel about New York and pajamas and started to get into my shirt. One of them gave me a shove in the ribs with his night stick and told me to come along quick. And that made me so mad I hid out. A chuckle escaped Billy. He wasn't expecting it, and I got him fair. He went down over the bookcase. The other cop took a swipe at me with this club, but by that time I was so mad I'd taken on Jim Jeffries if he'd shown up and gotten my way. I just sailed in and was beginning to make the man think he had stumbled upon Stanley Ketchell or Kid Brady or a dynamite explosion by mistake when the other fellow loosed himself from the bookcase and they started in on me together. And there was general rough house in the middle of which someone seemed to let off about $50,000 worth of fireworks all in a bunch. And I didn't remember anything till I found myself in a cell, pretty nearly knocked to pieces. That's my little life history. I guess I was a fool to cut loose that way, but I was so mad I didn't stop to think. Smithside. You have told me your painful story, he said. Now hear mine. After parting with you last night I went meditatively back to my Fourth Avenue address, and with a courtly good night to the large policeman who, as I have mentioned in previous conversations, is stationed almost at my very door. I passed on into my room and had soon sunk into a dreamless slumber. At about three in the morning I was aroused by a somewhat hefty banging on the door. What? A banging at the door. Repeated Smith. There, standing at the mat, were three policemen. From their remarks I gathered that certain bright spirits had been running a gambling establishment in the lower regions of the building, where, I think I told you, there was a saloon, and the law was now about to clean up the place. Very cordially the honest fellows invited me to go with them. A conveyance it seemed, waited in the street without. I pointed out, even as you appear to have done, that sea-green pajamas with old rose-frogs were not the costume in which a Shropshire Smith should be seen abroad in one of the world's greatest cities. But they assured me, more by their manner than their words, that my misgivings were out of place, so I yielded. These men, I told myself, have lived longer in New York than I. They know what is done and what is not done. I will bow to their views. So I went with them, and after a very pleasant and cozy little ride in the patrol wagon arrived at the police station. This morning I chatted a while with the courteous magistrate, convinced him by means of arguments and by silent evidence of my open, honest face and unwavering eye that I was not a professional gambler, and came away without a stain on my character. Billy Windsor listened to this narrative with growing interest. GUM! It's them! he cried. As Comrade Maloney would say, said Smith, meaning what, Comrade Windsor? Why, the fellows who were after that paper, they tipped the police off about the pull-rooms, knowing that we should be hauled off without having time to take anything with us. I'll bet you anything you like they've been in and searched our rooms by now. As regards yours, Comrade Windsor, I cannot say, but it is an undoubted fact that mine, which I revisited before going to the office, in order to correct what seemed to me, even a reflection, certain drawbacks in my costume, looks as if two cyclones at a threshing machine had passed through it. They've searched it. With a fine tooth comb. Not one of my objects of virtue, but has been displaced. Billy Windsor slapped his knee. It was lucky you thought of sending that paper by post, he said. We should have been done if you hadn't. But, say, he went on miserably. This is awful. Things are just warming up for the final person I'm out of at all. For thirty days, Sidesmith, what cozy moments really needs is a Sitz-Redeck tour. A what? A Sitz-Redeck tour, Comrade Windsor, is a gentleman employed by German newspapers with a taste for Liz Mejeste to go to prison whenever required in place of the real editor. The real editor hints in his bright and snappy editorial, for instance, that the Kaiser's mustache reminds him of a bad dream. The police force swoops down on mouse on the office of the journal and are met by the Sitz-Redeck tour, who goes with them peaceably, allowing the editor to remain and sketch out plans for his next week's article on the crown prince. We needed a Sitz-Redeck tour on cozy moments, almost as much of the fighting editor, and we have neither. The kid has to leave, then? He wants to go into training at once. He has very sportingly offered to cancel his match, but of course that would never do. Unless you consider Comrade Maloney equal to the job, I must look around me for someone else. I shall be too fully occupied with purely literary matters to be able to deal with chance colors, but I have a scheme. What's that? It seems to me that we are allowing much excellent material to lie unused in the shape of Comrade Jarvis. Bat Jarvis. The same? The cat specialist to whom you endeared yourself somewhat earlier in the proceedings, by befriending one of his little wandering animals. Little deeds of kindness, little acts of love as you have doubtless heard, help, etc. Should we not give Comrade Jarvis an opportunity of proving the correctness of this statement? I think so. Shortly after you, if you will forgive me for touching on a painful subject, have been hailed off to your dungeon, I will push round to Comrade Jarvis's address and sound him on the subject. Unfortunately, his affection is confined, I fancy, to you. Whether he will consent to put himself out on my behalf remains to be seen. However, there is no harm in trying. If nothing else comes of the visit, I shall at least have had the opportunity of chatting with one of our most prominent citizens. A policeman knocked on the door. Say, pal, he remarked to Smith, you'll have to be fading away soon, I guess. Give me three minutes more. Say it quick. He retired. Billy leaned forward to Smith. I guess they won't give me much of a chance, he whispered. But if you see me around in the next day or two, don't be surprised. I fail to follow you, Comrade Windsor. Been have escaped from Blackwells Island before now? Not many, it's true, but it has been done. Smith shook his head. I shouldn't, he said. They're bound to catch you, and then you will be immersed in the soup beyond hope of recovery. I shouldn't wonder if they put you into your little cell for a year or so. I don't care, said Billy Stoutlet. I give a year later on to be around and about now. I shouldn't, urged Smith. All will be well with the paper. You have left a good man at the helm. I guess I shan't get a chance. But I'll try, if I do. The door opened and the policeman reappeared. Time's up, I reckon. Well, goodbye, Comrade Windsor, said Smith regretfully. I've stained from undo worrying. It's a walkover from now on, and there's no earthly reason for you to be around the office. Once, I admit, this could not have been said. But now things have simplified themselves. Have no fear. This act is going to be a scream from start to finish. End of Chapter 23 of Smith Journalist Chapter 24 of Smith Journalist by P.G. Boathouse This reading by P.G. Boathouse is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by P.G. Boathouse. Chapter 24 A Gathering of Cat Specialists Master Maloney raised his eyes for a moment from his book as Smith re-entered the office. There's a guy in there waiting to see yous, he said briefly, jerking his head in the direction of the inner room. A guy waiting to see me, Comrade Maloney, with or without his handbag. Says his name's Jackson, said Master Maloney, turning a page. Smith moved quickly to the door of the inner room. Why, Comrade Jackson, he said with the air of a father welcoming home the prodigal son. This is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad new year. Where did you come from? Mike, looking very brown and in excellent condition, put down the paper he was reading. Hello, Smith, he said. I got back this morning. We're playing a game over in Brooklyn tomorrow. No engagements of any importance today. Not a thing, why? Because I propose to take you to visit Comrade Jarvis, whom you will doubtless remember. Jarvis, said Mike, puzzled. I don't remember any Jarvis. Let your mind wander back a little through the jungle of the past. Do you recollect paying a visit to Comrade Windsor's room? By the way, where is Windsor? In prison. Well, on that evening, in prison. For thirty days. For slugging a policeman. More of this, however, anon. Let us return to that evening. Don't you remember a certain gentleman with just about enough forehead to keep his front hair from getting all tangled up with his eyebrows? Oh, the cat-chap! I know, as you very justly observe, Comrade Jackson, the cat-chap. For going straight to the mark and seizing on the salient point of a situation, I know of no one who can last two minutes against you. Comrade Jarvis may have other sides to his character, possibly many, but it is as a cat-chap that I wish to approach him today. What's the idea? What are you going to see him for? We, corrected Smith, I will explain all at a little lynch at which I trust that you will be my guest. Already such is the stress of this journalistic life. I hear my tissues crying out imperatively to be restored. An oyster and a glass of milk some around the corner, Comrade Jackson. I think so. I think so. I was reading cozy moments in there, said Mike as they lunched. You certainly seem to have bucked it up, brother. Kid Brady's reminiscences are hot stuff. Somewhat sizzling, Comrade Jackson admitted Smith. They have, however, unfortunately cost us a fighting editor. How's that? Such is the boost that we have given Comrade Brady that he is now never without a match. He has had to leave us today to go to White Plains to train for an encounter with a certain Mr. Wood, a four-ounce glove juggler of established fame. I expect you need a fighting editor, don't you? He is indispensable, Comrade Jackson. Indispensable. No rotting. Has anyone cut up rough about the stuff you've printed? Cut up rough? Get zooks. I need merely say that one critical reader put a bullet through my hat. Rot. Not really. While others kept me treed on a roof for the space of nearly an hour, assuredly they have cut up rough, Comrade Jackson. Great Scott, tell us. Smith briefly recounted the adventures of the past few weeks. But man, said Mike when he had finished, why on earth don't you call in the police? We have mentioned the matter to certain of the force. They appeared tolerably interested, but showed no tendency to leap excitedly to our assistance. The New York policeman, Comrade Jackson, like all great men, is somewhat peculiar. If you go to a New York policeman and exhibit a black eye, he will examine and express some admiration for the abilities of the citizen responsible for the same. If you press the matter, he becomes bored and says, ain't you satisfied with what you've got, guan? His advice in such cases is good and should be followed. No, since coming to this city, I have developed the habit of taking care of myself or employing private help. That is why I should like you, if you will, to come with me to call upon Comrade Jarvis. He is a person of considerable influence among that section of the populace, which is endeavouring to smash in our octopus. Indeed, I know of nobody who cuts a greater quantity of ice. If I can only enlist Comrade Jarvis' assistance, all will be well. If you are through with your refreshment, shall we be moving in his direction? By the way, it will probably be necessary in the course of our interview to allude to you as one of our most eminent living cat fanciers. You do not object? Remember that you have in your English home seventy-four fine cats, mostly Angoras. Are you on to that? Then let us be going. Comrade Maloney has given me the address. It is a goodish step down the east side. I should like to take a taxi, but it might seem ostentatious. Let us walk. They found Mr. Jarvis in his Groom Street fancier shop, engaged in the intellectual occupation of greasing a cat's paws with butter. He looked up as they entered and began to breathe a melody with a certain coyness. Comrade Jarvis, said Smith, we meet again. You remember me? Nope, said Mr. Jarvis, pausing for a moment in the middle of a bar and then taking up the air where he had left off. Smith 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 Smith, adjusting his eyeglass, to which particular family of the felus domestica does that belong. In color it resembles a neapolitan eyes more than anything. Mr. Jarvis's manner became unfriendly. Say what do yous want? That straight ain't it. If yous want to buy a boy to a snake, why don't yous say so? I stand corrected, said Smith. I should have remembered that time is money. I called it here partly on the strength of being a colleague and side-partner of Comrade Windsor. Mr. Windsor, the gentleman caught me cat. The same, and partly in order that I might make two very eminent cat fanciers acquainted. This, he said, with the wave of his hand in the direction of the silently protesting Mike, is Comrade Jackson, possibly the best known of our English cat fanciers. A Comrade Jackson's stout of engross is celebrated wherever the king's English is spoken, and in Huckston. Mr. Jarvis rose, and having inspected Mike with silent admiration for a while, extended a well-buttered hand towards him. Smith looked on benevolently. What Comrade Jackson does not know about cats, he said, is not knowledge. His information on engross alone would fill a volume. Say, Mr. Jarvis was evidently touching on a point which had weighed deeply upon him. Why is cat-nip called cat-nip? Mike looked at Smith 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 Smith, 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 into fully at the moment. I should recommend you to read Comrade Jackson's little brochure on the matter. A passing lightly on from that, Did you ever have a cat that ate beetles? inquired Mr. Jarvis. There was a time when many of Comrade Jackson's fellow guys supported life almost entirely on beetles. Did they get 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 Smith, don't make cats thin. A passing lightly, I had a cat once, said Mr. Jarvis, ignoring the remark and sticking to his point, did eat beetles and got thin and used to tie itself into knots. A versatile animal, agreed Smith. Say, Mr. Jarvis went on, now plainly on a subject near to his heart. Then beetles, these fierce shewer, can't keep the cats off eating them, I can't. First thing you know, they swallowed them, and then they get thin and ties themselves into knots. You should put them into straight waistcoats, said Smith. A passing, however lightly. Say, ever have a cross-eyed cat? A Comrade Jackson's cat, said Smith, have happily been almost free from strabismus. Day's lucky cross-eyed cats is, you as a cross-eyed cat, nothing don't never go wrong. But say, was there ever a cat with one blue eye and one y'all are one in your bunch? Comrade's fierce when it's like that. It's a real skidoo as a cat with one blue eye and one y'all are one. Puts you in bad, sure as thing you know. Once, a guy gave me a cat like that, and first thing you know, I'm in bad all around. It wasn't till I gave my way to the cop on the corner and gets me one that's cross-eyed, then I lifts this skidoo off of me. And what happened to the cop? inquired Smith, interested. We got him bad, sure enough, said Mr. Jarvis, without emotion. Wanted to boy what he'd pinched and sent it to island one slave's form and put one over and went to blackjack. Sure, that's what comes of having a cat with one blue eye and one y'all are one. Mr. Jarvis relaxed into silence. He seemed to be meditating on the inscrutable workings of fate. Smith took advantage of this pause to leave the cat topic and touch on matters 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 Smith, that Comrade Windsor is a man to whom you give the glad hand. Sure, he's did a good, Mr. Windsor, as he caught me cat. He did, by the way. Was that the one that used to tie itself into knots? Nope, that was another. Ah, however, to resume, the fact is, Comrade Jarvis, that 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? A mainly scoundrels. I fancy that you have heard a little about our troubles before this. In fact, I gather the same scoundrels actually approached you with a view to engaging your services to do us in, but that you very handsomely refuse the contract. Sure, said Mr. Jarvis, dimly comprehending. That guy comes to me and says he wants you and Mr. Windsor put through it, but I give him to turn down. Not in done, I says. Mr. Windsor caught me cat. So he was informed, said Smith. Well, failing you, they went to a gentleman of the name of Riley. Spider Riley. You have headed, Comrade Jarvis. Spider Riley, the lessy and manager of the three-points gang. Toast three-points, dirty to bad. They're fresh. It is too true, Comrade Jarvis. Say, went on Mr. Jarvis, waxing wrathful at the recollection. What do you stinking fresh stiffs done the other night? Started some rough work in my own dance joint. A shamrock hall, said Smith. That's right, shamrock hall. Got gate-aid did with some of them table-hillers. Say, I got it in for them, gazebo sure I have. Sureest thing you know. Smith 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. And 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 stood a good, ascended Mr. Jarvis. I am like in a friendly fashion. We are all too to good, said Smith. Now, the thing I wish 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. The 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 the same specialist 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 for that. 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 cozy 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, Ting. I'll bring me canister. I should, Sid Smith. 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, Sid Smith complacently as they turned out of Groom 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 a 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 on the subject of catnip, for instance, it might quite possibly come in useful. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Psuke Borea. A 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 cozy 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 wanted calm by the arrival of this distinguished company, observed the pair as they passed through into the inner office, with protruding eyes, and sat speedless for a full five minutes. Smith received the newcomers in the editorial sanctum with courteous warmth. Mr. Jarvis introduced his colleague. Thought I'd bring him along. Long autos is Monica. You did very rightly, comrade Jarvis, Smith 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 Bithville on the slush. The hardiest hooligan would shrink from introducing roughhouse proceedings into a room graced by the combined presence of Long Otto and himself. Then, said Smith, 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 piece and group yourselves tastefully about the room and 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 this where you write sub-pieces for the paper? inquired Mr. Jarvis, eyeing the table. It is, said Smith. In comrade Windsor's pre-dungeon days, he was once dissed for I am sitting now while I bivouacked over there at the smaller table. On busy morning 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 day off, could you employ it to profit? Suresting you know, replied Pugsy with some fervour. I'd take me goiled into Bronx Zoo. Your girl, said Smith 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? I see as a kid, said Pugsy. Her paw runs a delicatessen shop down her street. She ain't a bad mutt, added the ardent swaying. I am her steady. See that I have a card for the wedding, comrade Maloney, said Smith. And in the meantime, take her to the Bronx, as you suggest. Won't you be want me today? A 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 Lama, whom friends have sometimes told me I resemble in appearance. And if two dollars were in any way add to the gaiety of the jaunt, Suretinge, thanks, boss. It occurred to me, said Smith, 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 thing gummy and the thingamabob of the, what do you call it? For about a quarter of an hour, the only sound that broke the silence of the room was the scratching of Smith's pen and the musical expectoration of Mishir's Otto and Jarvis. Finally, Smith 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 bomb. Comrade Otto will burn me out in my statement that there is a subtle joy in the manufacture of a well-formed phrase. Am I not right, comrade Otto? The long one gazed appealingly at Mr. Jarvis, who spoke for him. He is a bit shy on hand and avoids his Otto, he said. Smith 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. Smith was right. Someone was moving stealthily in the outer office, judging from the sound more than one person. It is just as well, said Smith softly, and that comrade Bologna 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 hit cannon against the table. The third, who was holding the handle, was more fortunate. Smith rose with a kindly smile to welcome his guests. Why, surely, he said in a pleased voice, I thought I knew the face. Comrade Rapetto, 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. Smith'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 yourself 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 meetings seemed to be causing them embarrassment. This may happen 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 done? Mr. Rapetto, 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. Going to stut nearer of stuff, inquired Mr. Jarvis casually. Other secars are on the table, said Smith hospitably. Draw up your chairs and let's all be jolly. I will open the proceedings with a song. In a rich barrentone, with his eyeglass fixed the while on Mr. Rapetto, 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 Rapetto. Why this shrinking coiness? Fling out your chest and cut loose. But Mr. Rapetto's eye was fastened on Mr. Jarvis's revolver. The sight apparently had the effect of quenching his desire for song. Love me, and the world is mine. Concluded Smith. He looked around the assembled company. A comrade Otto, he observed, will now recite that pathetic little poem, Baby Sock is now a blue bag. Pray, gentlemen, silence for comrade Otto. He looked inquiringly at the long youth, who remained mute. Smith clicked his tongue regretfully. A comrade Jarvis, he said, I fear that as a smoking concert this is not going to be a success. I understand, however. Comrade Rapetto 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 did you wish to see me about, comrade Rapetto? Mr. Rapetto's reply was unintelligible. Mr. Jarvis made a suggestion. Yous had better beat it, he said. Long Otto grunted sympathy with his advice. And yous had better go back to Spider Riley, continued Mr. Jarvis, and tell him that there's nothing doing in the way of Ruff House with this gent here. He indicated Smith, who bowed. And you can tell the Spider went on bad with growing ferocity, that the next time he gets gay and starts in the shoot guys in me dense joint, I'll bite the head off him, see. Does that go? If he thinks his little two-by-four gang can put it across the groom's street, he can try. That's right. And don't forget this gent here in me is pals, and one that starts anything with this gent is gonna have to get busy with me. Does that go? Smith coughed and shot his cuffs. I do not know, he said in the manner of a chairman addressing a meeting, that I have anything to add to the very well-expressed remarks of my friend, comrade Jarvis. He has, in my opinion, covered the ground very thoroughly and satisfactorily. It now only remains for me to pass a vote of thanks to comrade Jarvis, and to declare this meeting at an end. Beat it! said Mr. Jarvis, pointing to the door. The delegation then withdrew. I am very much obliged, said Smith, for your currently assistance, comrade Jarvis. But for you I do not care to think with what a splash I might not have been immersed in the gumbo. Thank you, comrade Jarvis, and you, comrade Otto. Ah, gee, said Mr. Jarvis, handsomely dismissing the matter. Mr. Otto kicked the leg of the table and grunted. For half an hour after the departure of the three pointers, Smith chetted amably to his two assistants on matters of general interest. The exchange of ideas was somewhat one-sided, though Mr. Jarvis had one or two striking items of information to impart, notably some hints on the treatment of fits and kittens. At the end of this period the conversation was once more interrupted by the sound of movements in the outer office. If that's those discs come back, began Mr. Jarvis reaching for his revolver. A stayer hand, comrade Jarvis, said Smith, as a sharp knock sounded on the door. I do not think it can be our late friends. A comrade Rapeto's knowledge of the usages of polite society is too limited, I fancy, to prompt him to knock on doors. Come in. The door opened. It was not Mr. Rapeto or his colleagues, but another old friend. No other, in fact, than Mr. Francis Parker, he who had come as an embassy for the man up top in the very beginning of affairs, and had departed, wrathful, melding declarations of war. As on his previous visit he wore the dude's suit, the shiny shoes, and the tall-shaped hat. Welcome, comrade Parker, said Smith. It is too long since we met. A comrade Jarvis, I think you know, if I am right, that is to say, in supposing that it was you who approached to meet an earlier stage in the proceedings, with a few to engage in his sympathetic aid and the great work of putting comrade Windsor and myself out of business. The gentleman on your left is comrade Otto. Mr. Parker was looking at that in bewilderment. It was plain that he had not expected to find Smith entertaining such company. Did you come purely for a friendly chat, comrade Parker, inquired Smith? Or was there, moving into the social motives of your call, a desire to talk business of any kind? My business is private. I didn't expect a crowd. Especially of ancient friends such as comrade Jarvis. Well, well, you are breaking up a most interesting little symposium. A comrade Jarvis, I think I shall be forced to postpone our very entertaining discussion of fits and kittens, until a more opportune moment. Meanwhile, as comrade Parker wishes to talk over some private business, bet Jarvis rose. I'll beat it, he said. Reluctantly, I hope, comrade Jarvis. As reluctantly as I hint that I would be alone. If I might drop in some time at your private residence. Sure, said Mr. Jarvis, warmly. Excellent. Well, for the present, good-bye, and many thanks for your invaluable cooperation. Achy! said Mr. Jarvis. And now, comrade Parker, said Smith, when the door had closed. Let her rip. What can I do for you? You seem to be all to the merry with bat Jarvis. Observe, Mr. Parker. The phrase exactly expresses it, comrade Parker. I am as a tortoise shell kitten to him. But touching your business. Mr. Parker was silent for a moment. See here, he said at last. Aren't you going to be good? Say, what's the use of keeping up at this fool game? Why not quit it before you get hurt? Smith soothed his waistcoat reflectively. I may be wrong, comrade Parker. He said, but it seems to me that the chances of my getting hurt are not so great as you appear to imagine. The person who is in danger of getting hurt seems to me to be the gentleman whose name is on that paper, which is now in my possession. Where is it? demanded Mr. Parker quickly. Smith eyed him benevolently. If you will pardon the expression, comrade Parker. He said, ah, a meaning that I propose to keep that information to myself. Mr. Parker shrugged his shoulders. You know you're on business, I guess. Smith nodded. You are absolutely correct, comrade Parker. I do. And now that cozy moments has our excellent friend come much of us on its side, are you not to a certain extent among the Blenheim oranges? I think so. I think so. As he spoke there was a wrap at the door. A small boy entered. In his hand was a scrap of paper. Can you give me the case to the casino named Smith? He said, there are many casinos of that name I lad, one of whom I am which, as Artemis Ward was want to observe. Possibly the missive is for me. He took the paper. It was dated from an address on the east side. Dear Smith, it ran, come here as quick as you can and bring some money. Explain when I see you. It was signed, W.W. So Billy Windsor had fulfilled his promise. He had escaped. A feeling of regret for the futility of the thing was Smith's first emotion. Billy could be of no possible help in the campaign at its present point. All the work that remained to be done could be easily carried out without his assistance. And by breaking out from the island he had committed an offense which was bound to carry with it serious penalties. For the first time since his connection with cozy moments began Smith was really disturbed. He turned to Mr. Parker. Comrade Parker, he said, I regret to state that this office is now closing for the day, but for this I would be delighted to sit chatting with you, as it is. Very well, said Mr. Parker, then you mean to go on with this business. Though it snows, Comrade Parker. They went out into the street, Smith thoughtful and hardly realizing the other's presence. By the side of the pavement a few yards down the road a taxiometer cab was standing. Smith hailed it. Mr. Parker was still beside him. It occurred to Smith that it would not do to let him hear the address Billy Windsor had given in his note. Turn and go on down the street, he said to the driver. He had taken his seat and was closing the door when it was snatched from his grasp and Mr. Parker darted on to the seat opposite. The next moment the cab had started up the street instead of down and the hard muzzle of a revolver was pressing against Smith's waistcoat. Now what? said Mr. Parker smoothly, leaning back with the pistol resting easily on his knee. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Psuke Burya. Chapter 26 A Friend in Need The point is well taken, said Smith thoughtfully. You think so, said Mr. Parker. I am convinced of it. Good, but don't move. Put that hand back where it was. You think of everything, comrade Parker. He dropped his hand onto the seat and remained silent for a few moments. The taxi cab was buzzing along up Fifth Avenue now. Looking towards the window, Smith saw that they were nearing the park. The great white mass of the Plaza Hotel showed up on the left. Did you ever stop at the Plaza, comrade Parker? No, said Mr. Parker shortly. Don't budge me, comrade Parker. Why be brusque on so joyous an occasion? A better man than us have stopped at the Plaza. Ah, the park! How fresh the leaves, comrade Parker! How green the herbage! A fling your eye at yonder, grassy knoll. He raised his hand to point. Instantly the revolver was against his waistcoat, making an unwelcome crease in that immaculate garment. I told you to keep that hand where it was. Ah, you did, comrade Parker, you did. The fault, said Smith handsomely, was entirely mine. Carried away by my love of nature, I forgot. It shall not occur again. It is better not, said Mr. Parker, unpleasantly. If it does, I'll blow a hole through you. Smith raised his eyebrows. That, comrade Parker, he said, is where you make your air. You would no more shoot me in the heart of the metropolis than, I trust, you would wear a made-up tie with evening dress. Your skin, however unhealthy to the eye of the casual observer, is doubtless, precious to yourself, and you are not the man I take you for, if you would risk it purely for the momentary pleasure of plucking me with a revolver. The cry goes round criminal circles in New York. Comrade Parker is not such a fool as he looks. I think for a moment what would happen. The shot would ring out, and instantly bicycle policemen would be pursuing this taxi cab with the purposeful speed of Greyhounds trying to win the Waterloo Cup. You would be headed off and stopped. Ha, what is this? Smith, the people's pet, walttering in his gore. Death to the assassin. I fear nothing could save you from the fury of the mob, comrade Parker. I seem to see them meditatively plucking you limb from limb. She loves me. Off comes an arm. She loves me not. A leg joins the little heap of limbs on the ground. That is how it would be. And what would you have left out of it? Merely, as I say, the momentary pleasure of potting me. And it isn't as if such a feat could give you the thrill of successful markmanship. Anybody could hit a man with a pistol at an inch and a quarter. I fear you have not thought this matter out with sufficient care, comrade Parker. You said to yourself, Happy thought, I will kidnap Smith. And all your friends said, Parker is the man with the big brain. But now, well it is true I can't get out. You are moaning. What on earth shall I do with him, now that I have got him? You think so, do you? I am convinced of it. Your face is contorted with the anguish of mental stress. Let this be a listen to you, comrade Parker. Never to embark on any enterprise of which you do not see the end. I guess I see the end of this all right. You have the advantage of me then, comrade Parker. It seems to me that we have nothing before us, but to go on writing about New York till you feel that my society begins to pawl. You figure you're clever, I guess. There are a few brighter brains in the city, comrade Parker. But why this sudden tribute? You reckon you've thought it all out, eh? There may be a flaw in my reasoning, but I confess I do not at the moment see where it lies. Have you detected one? I guess so. Ah, and what is it? You seem to think that New York's the only place on the map. A meaning what, comrade Parker? It might be a full trick to shoot you in the city as you say, but you see, we aren't due to stay in the city. This cab is moving on. Like John Brown's soul, said Smith, nodding, I see, then you propose to make quite a little tour in this cab. You've got it. And when we are out in the open country where there are no witnesses, things may begin to move. That's it. Then, said Smith hurling, till that moment arrives, what we must do is entertain each other with conversation. You can take no step of any sort for a full half hour, possibly more, so let us give ourselves up to the merriment of the passing instant. Are you good at riddles, comrade Parker? How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, assuming, for the purposes of argument, that it was in the power of a woodchuck to chuck wood? Mr. Parker did not attempt to solve this problem. He was sitting in the same attitude of watchfulness, the revolver resting on his knee. He seemed mistrustful of Smith's right hand, which was hanging limply at his side. It was from this quarter that he seemed to expect attack. The cab was bullying easily up the broad street, past rows on rows of high houses, all looking exactly the same. Occasionally, to the right, through a break in the line of buildings, a glimpse of the river could be seen. Smith resumed his conversation. You are not interested in woodchucks, comrade Parker? Well, well, many people are not. A passion for the flora and fauna of our forest is innate rather than acquired. Let us talk of something else. How tell me about your home life, comrade Parker? Are you married? Are there any little parkers running about the house? Oh, when you return from this very pleasant excursion, well, baby voices crow gleefully, Fathers, come home! Mr. Parker said nothing. I see, said Smith, with ready sympathy. I understand. Say no more. You are unmarried. She wouldn't have you. Alas, comrade Parker. However, thus it is. We look around us, and what do we see? A solid phalanx of the girls we have loved and lost. Tell me about her, comrade Parker. Was it your face or your manners, had which she drew the line? Mr. Parker leaned forward with a scowl. Smith did not move, but his right hand, as it hung, closed. Another moment in Mr. Parker's chin would be in just the right position for a swift uppercut. This fact appeared suddenly to dawn on Mr. Parker himself. He drew back quickly, and half raised the revolver. Smith's hand resumed its normal attitude. Leaving more painful topics, said Smith, let us turn to another point. That note, which the grubby stripling brought to me at the office, purported to have come from comrade Windsor, and stated that he had escaped from Blackwells Island, and was awaiting my arrival at some address in the Bowery. Would you mind telling me, purely to satisfy my curiosity, if that note was genuine? I have never made a close study of comrade Windsor's per handwriting, and in an unguarded moment I may have assumed too much. Mr. Parker permitted himself a smile. I guess you weren't so clever after all, he said. The note was a fake, all right. And you had this cab waiting for me on the chance? Mr. Parker nodded. Sherlock Holmes was right, said Smith regretfully. You may remember that he advised Dr. Watson never to take the first cab, or the second. He should have gone further, and urged him not to take cabs at all. Walking is far healthier. You'll find it so, said Mr. Parker. Smith eyed him curiously. What are you going to do with me, comrade Parker? He asked. Mr. Parker did not reply. Smith's eye turned again to the window. They had covered much ground since last he looked at the view. They were off Manhattan Island now, and the houses were beginning to thin out. Soon, travelling at their present rate, they must come to the open country. Smith relaxed into silence. It was necessary for him to think. He had been talking in the hope of getting the other off his guard, but Mr. Parker was evidently too keenly on the lookout. That hand that held the revolver never wavered. The muzzle, pointing in an upward direction, was aimed at Smith's waist. There was no doubt that a move on his part would be fatal. If the pistol went off, it must hit him. If it had been pointed at his head in the orthodox way, he might have risked a sudden blow to knock it aside, but in the present circumstance that would be useless. There was nothing to do but wait. The cab moved swiftly on. Now they had reached the open country. An occasional wooden shack was passed, but that was all. At any moment the climax of the drama might be reached. Smith's muscles stiffened for a spring. There was little chance of it being effective, but at least it would be better to put up some kind of fight. And he had a faint hope that the suddenness of his movement might upset the other's aim. He was bound to be hit somewhere, that was certain, but quickness might save him to some extent. He braced his leg against the back of the cab, and another moment he would have sprung. But just then the smooth speed at the cab changed to a series of jarring bumps, each more emphatic than the last. It slowed down, then came to a halt. One of the tires had burst. There was a thud as the chauffeur jumped down. They heard him fumbling in the toolbox. Presently the body of the machine was raised slightly as he got to work with the jack. It was about a minute later that somebody on the road outside spoke. At a breakdown, inquired the voice, Smith recognized it. It was the voice of Kid Brady. End of Chapter 26 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse. Chapter 27 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by P. Suke Borea. Chapter 27 Smith concludes his ride. The Kid, as he had stated to Smith at their last interview that he intended to do, had begun his training for his match with Eddie Wood at White Plains, a village distant but a few miles from New York. It was his practice to open a course of training with a little gentle road work, and it was while jogging along the highway a couple of miles from his training camp, in company with the two thick-necked gentlemen who acted as his sparring partners, that he had come upon the broken down taxi cab. If this had happened after his training had begun in real earnest, he would have averted his eyes from the spectacle, however alluring, and continued on his way without pause. But now, as he had not yet settled down to genuine hard work, he felt justified in turning aside and looking into the matter. The fact that the chauffeur, who seemed to be a taciturn man, lacking the conversational graces, manifestly objected to an audience, deterred him not at all. One cannot have everything in this world, and the kid and his attendant thick-necks were content to watch the process of mending the tire without demanding the additional joy of a sparkling small talk from the man in charge of the operations. Guys had a breakdown, sure, said the first of the thick-necks. Suresting, you know, ungrateful colleague. Seems to me the tires punctured, said the kid. All three concentrated their gaze on the machine. Kid's right, said thick-neck number one. Guy's been in bust a tire. Suresting, you know, said thick-neck number two. They observed the perspiring chauffeur in silence for a while. Wonder how he did that now, speculated the kid. Guy ran over a nail, I guess, said thick-neck number one. Suresting, you know, said the other. Who, well, perhaps somewhat lacking in the matter of original thought, was the most useful fellow to have by one. A sort of Boswell. Did you run over a nail? The kid inquired of the chauffeur. The chauffeur ignored the question. This is his busy day, said the first thick-neck with satire. Guy's too full of work to talk to us. Death shouldn't wonder, surmised the kid. Say, wonder what he's been doing with the taxi so far out of the city? Some guy tells him to drive out here, I guess. Say, it'll cost him something, too. He'll have to strip off a few from his role to pay for this. Smith, in the interior of the cab, glanced at Mr. Parker. You heard, Comrade Parker. He is right, I fancy. The bill. Mr. Parker dug viciously at him with the revolver. Keep quiet, he whispered, or you'll get hurt. Smith suspended his remarks. Outside the conversation had begun again. Pretty rich guy inside, said the kid, following up his companion's train of thought. I'm going to rubber in at the window. Smith, meeting Mr. Parker's eye, smiled pleasantly. There was no answering smile on the other's face. There came the sound of kids' feet grating on the road as he turned, and as he heard it, Mr. Parker, that eminent tactician, for the first time lost his head, with a vague idea of screening Smith from the eyes of the man in the road he half rose. For an instant, the muzzle of the pistol ceased to point at Smith's waistcoat. It was the very chance Smith had been waiting for. His left hand shut out, grasped the other's wrist, and gave it a sharp wrench. The revolver went off with a deafening report, the bullet passing through the back of the cab, and then fell to the floor as the fingers lost their hold. The next moment Smith's right fist darting upwards took Mr. Parker, neatly under the ankle of his jaw. The effect was instantaneous. Smith had risen from his seat as he delivered the blow, and it consequently got the full benefit of his weight, which was not small. Mr. Parker literally crumpled up. His head jerked back, then fell limply on his chest. He would have slipped to the floor had not Smith pushed him onto the seat. The interested face of the kid appeared at the window. Behind him could see portions of the faces of the two thick-necks. Ah, comrade Brady, said Smith genuinely. I heard your voice and was hoping you might look in for a chat. What's doin', Mr. Smith? quarried the excited kid. Much comrade Brady, much. I will tell you all in on. Meanwhile, however, kindly knock that chauffeur down and sit on his head. He's a bad person. The guys beat it, volunteered the first thick-nick. Suresting you know, said the other. What's been doin', Mr. Smith? asked the kid. I'll tell you about it as we go, comrade Brady, said Smith, stepping into the road. Riding in a taxi is pleasant, provided it is not overdone. For the moment I've had sufficient, a bit of walking will do me good. What are you going to do with this guy, Mr. Smith? asked the kid, pointing to Parker, who had begun to stir slightly. Smith inspected the stricken one gravely. I have no use for him, comrade Brady. He said, All right, together, give me as much of his society as I desire for today. Unless you or either of your friends are collecting Parker's, I propose that we leave him where he is. We may as well take the gun, however. In my opinion, comrade Parker is not the proper man to have such a weapon. He is too prone to go firing it off in any direction at a moment's notice, causing inconvenience to all. He groped on the floor of the cab for the revolver. Now, comrade Brady, he said, straining himself up, I am at your disposal. Shall we be pushing on? It was late in the evening when Smith returned to the metropolis after a pleasant afternoon at the Brady training camp. The kid, having heard the details of the ride, offered once more to abandon his match with Eddie Wood, but Smith would not hear of it. He was fairly satisfied that the opposition had fired the last shot, and that their next move would be to endeavor to come to terms. They could not hope to catch him off his guard a second time, and as far as pirate assault and battery were concerned, he was as safe in New York, now that Bat Jarvis had declared himself on his side, as he would have been in the middle of a desert. What Bat said was law on the East Side, no hooligan, however eager to make money, would dare to act against a protégé of the Groom Street leader. The only flaw in Smith's contentment was the absence of Billy Windsor. On this night of all nights the editorial staff of Cozy Moments should have been together to celebrate the successful outcome of their campaign. Smith died alone. His enjoyment of the rather special dinner, which he felt justified in ordering in honour of the occasion, somewhat diminished by the thought of Billy's hard case. He had seen Mr. William Collier in The Man for Mexico, and that had given him an understanding of what a term of imprisonment on Blackwell's island meant. Billy, during these lean days, must be supporting life on bread, bean soup, and water. Smith towing with the hors d'oeuvre was somewhat saddened by the thought. All was quiet at the office on the following day. Bat Jarvis, again accompanied by the faithful auto, had took up his position in the inner room, prepared to repel all invaders, but none arrived. No sound broke the peace of the outer office, except the whistling of Master Maloney. Things were almost dull when the telephone bell rang. Smith took down the receiver. Hello, he said. I'm Parker, said a moody voice. Smith uttered a cry of welcome. Why, comrade Parker, this is splendid! How goes it? Did you get back all right yesterday? I was sorry to have to tear myself away, but I had other engagements. But why use the telephone? Why not come here in person? You know how welcome you are. Hire a taxi cab and come right round. Mr. Parker made no reply to the invitation. Mr. Waring would like to see you. Oh, comrade Parker? Mr. Stewart Waring. At the celebrated tenement house owner. Silence from the other end of the wire. Well, said Smith, what step does he propose to take towards it? He tells me to say that he will be in his office at twelve o'clock tomorrow morning. His office is in the Morton Building, Nossoff Street. Smith clicked his tongue regretfully. And then I do not see how we can meet. He said, I shall be here. He wishes to see you at his office. I am sorry, comrade Parker, it is impossible. I am very busy just now, as you may know, preparing the next number, of the one in which we published the name of the owner of the Pleasant Street tenements. Otherwise, I should be delighted. Perhaps later, when the rush of work has diminished somewhat. Am I to tell Mr. Waring that you refuse? If you are seeing him at any time and feel at loss for something to say, perhaps you might mention it. Is there anything else I can do for you, comrade Parker? See here. Nothing. Then good-bye. Look in when you're this way. He hung up the receiver. As he did so, he was aware of Master Maloney standing beside the table. A yes, comrade Maloney? Telegram, said Pugsy, for Mr. Windsor. Smith ripped open the envelope. The message ran, returning to-day will be at office tomorrow morning, and it was signed Wilberfloss. See who's here, said Smith softly. End of Chapter 27 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Boathouse Chapter 28 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Boathouse This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by P. G. Boathouse Chapter 28 Standing Room Only In the light of subsequent events, it was perhaps the least bit unfortunate that Mr. Jarvis should have seen fit to bring with him to the office of cozy moments on the following morning two of his celebrated squad of cats, and that Long Otto, who, as usual, accompanied him, should have been fired by his example to the extent of introducing a large and rather boisterously yellow dog. They were not to be blamed, of course. They could not know that before the morning was over, space in the office would be at a premium. Still, it was unfortunate. Mr. Jarvis was slightly apologetic. Taught he'd bring the kids along, he said. They started in Scrapin' yesterday when I was here, so today I says I'll keep my eye on them. Smith inspected the menagerie without resentment. A shrewdly comment, Jarvis, he said. They add a pleasantly cozy and domestic touch to the scene. The only possible criticism I could find to make has to do with their probable brawling with the dog. Oh, they want Scrapin' the dog. They knows him. But is he aware of that? He looks to me a somewhat impulsive animal. Well, well, the matter's in your hands. If you will undertake to look after the refereeing of any program that may arise, I say no more. Mr. Jarvis's statement as to the friendly relations between the animals proved to be correct. The dog made no attempt to annihilate the cats. After an inquisitive journey round the room, he lay down and went to sleep, and an arrow of peace set in. The cats had settled themselves comfortably, one on each of Mr. Jarvis's knees, and long auto, surveying the ceiling with his customary glassy stare, smoked a long cigar in silence. Bet breathed a tune and scratched one of the cats under the ear. It was a soothing scene. But it did not last. Ten minutes had barely elapsed when the yellow dog, sitting up at the start, uttered a whine. In the outer office could be heard a stir and movement. In the next moment the door burst open and a little man dashed in. He had peeled nose and showed other evidences of having been living in the open air. Behind him was a crowd of uncertain numbers. Smith recognized the leaders of this crowd. As they were, the Reverend Edmund T. Philpott and B. Henderson Asher. Why, Conrad Asher, he said, this is indeed a moment of mirth. I have been wondering for weeks where you could have got to, and Conrad Philpott's. Am I wrong in saying that this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad new year? The rest of the crowd entered the room. Conrad Waterman, too, cried Smith, why we have all met before, except he glanced inquiringly at the little man with the peeled nose. My name is Wilbur Floss, said the other with austerity. Will you be so good as to tell me where Mr. Windsor is? A murmur of approval from his followers. In one moment, said Smith, first, however, let me introduce two important members of our staff. On your right, Mr. Badgervis. On your left, Mr. Long Otto. Both of Groom Street. The two bowery boys rose awkwardly. The cats fell in an avalanche to the floor. Long Otto, in his haste, trod on the dog, which began barking, a process which had kept up almost without pause during the rest of the interview. Mr. Wilbur Floss, said Smith, in an aside debate, is widely known as a cat fancier in Brooklyn Circles. Honest to Mr. Jarvis, he tapped Mr. Wilbur Floss in a friendly fashion on the chest. Say, did you ever have a cat with one blue eye and one yellow eye? Mr. Wilbur Floss sidestepped and turned once more to Smith, who was offering B. Henderson Asher a cigarette. Who are you? he demanded. A who am I? repeated Smith in an astonished tone. Who are you? I am Smith, said the old Atonian reverently. There is a preliminary pee before the name. This, however, is silent, as like the tomb. Compare such words as Tarmigan, Psalm, and Vissus. These gentlemen tell me you're acting editor. Who appointed you? Smith reflected. It is rather a nice point, he said. It might be claimed that I appointed myself. You may say, however, that Comrade Windsor appointed me. Ah, and where is Mr. Windsor? In prison, said Smith sorrowfully. In prison, Smith nodded. It is too true. Such is the generous impulsiveness of Comrade Windsor's nature that he hit a policeman, was promptly gathered in, and is now serving a sentence of thirty days on Blackwell's Island. Mr. Wilbur Floss looked at Mr. Phil Potts. Mr. Asher looked at Mr. Wilbur Floss. Mr. Waterman started, and stumbled over a cat. I never heard of such a thing, said Mr. Wilbur Floss. A faint, sad smile played across Smith's face. Do you remember Comrade Waterman? I fancy it was to you I made the remark, by commenting at our previous interview on the rashness of confusing the unusual with the impossible. Here we see Comrade Wilbur Floss, a big-brained though he is, fuzzling into error. I shall dismiss Mr. Windsor immediately, said the big-brained one. From Blackwell's Island, said Smith, I am sure you will earn his gratitude if you do. They live on bean soup there, bean soup and bread, and not much of either. He broke off to turn his attention to Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Waterman, between whom bad blood seemed to have arisen. Mr. Jarvis, holding a cat in his arms, was glouring at Mr. Waterman, who had backed away and seemed nervous. Oh, what is the trouble, Comrade Jarvis? Deck-guideer with two left feet, said back queriously, goes in trance on a kit. I assure you it was pure accident. The animal, Mr. Wilbur Floss, eyeing Bat and the silent auto with disgust, intervened. Who are these persons, Mr. Smith? he inquired. Poison yourself, rejoined Bat justly in sense. Who is the little guy with the peel-briser, Mr. Smith? Smith waved his hands. Gentlemen, gentlemen, he said, let us not descend to mere personalities. I thought I had introduced you. This, Comrade Jarvis, is Mr. Wilbur Floss, the editor of this journal. These, Comrade Wilbur Floss, the same book would put your nose to right in a day, are, respectively, Bat Jarvis and the Long Auto are acting, fighting editors, a vice-kit Brady, absent on unaffordable business. KIT BRADY! shooed Mr. Wilbur Floss. I insist that you give me a full explanation of this matter. I go away by my doctor's orders for ten weeks, leaving Mr. Windsor to conduct the paper on certain well-defined lines. I return yesterday and getting into communication with Mr. Phil Potts. What do I find? Why, then, in my absence, the paper has been ruined. Ruined, said Smith. On the contrary, examine the returns, and you will see that circulation has gone up every week. Cozy moments was never so prosperous and flourishing. A Comrade Auto, do you think you could use your personal influence with that dog to induce it to suspend its barking for a while? It is musical, but renders conversation difficult. Long Auto raised a massive boot and aimed it at the animal, which, dodging with a yelp, cannoned against the second cat and had its nose scratched. Piercing shrieks cleft the air. I demand an explanation! roared Mr. Wilbur Floss above the din. I think, Comrade Auto, said Smith, it would make things a little easier if you removed that dog. He opened the door. The dog shot out. They could hear it being ejected from the outer office by Master Maloney. When there was silence, Smith turned courteously to the editor. Are you saying, Comrade Wilbur Floss? Who is this person, Brady? With Mr. Phil Potts, I have been going carefully over the numbers which have been issued in my departure. An intellectual treat, murmured Smith. And in each there is a picture of this young man in costume which I will not particularize. There was hardly enough of it to particularize. Together with a page of disgusting autobiographical material. Smith held up his hand. I protest, he said. We caught criticism, but this is mere abuse. I appeal to these gentlemen to say whether this, for instance, is not bright and interesting. He picked up the current number of cozy moments and turned to the kid's page. This, he said, describing a certain town-round unpleasantness with one Mexican Joe. Joe comes up for the second round, and he gives me a nasty look. But I think of my mother in swats and one in the lower ribs. He hollers foul, but nicks on that. Ruffery says, fight on. Joe gives me another nasty look. All right, kitty, says. Now I'll knock you up into the gallery. And with that, he cuts loose with the right swing. But I falls into the clinch, and then… Bah! exclaimed Mr. Wilbur Floss. Go on, boss. Urged Mr. Jarvis approvingly. It's to the good dad stuff. There, said Smith triumphantly. You heard? Comrade Jarvis, one of the most firmly established critics east of Fifth Avenue, stamps Kid Brady's reminiscences with the hallmark of his approval. I falls for the kid every time, assented Mr. Jarvis. Assuredly, Comrade Jarvis, you know a good thing when you see one. Why, he went on warmly, there is stuff in these reminiscences which would stir the blood of a jellyfish. Let me quote you another passage to show that they are not only enthralling, but helpful as well. Let me see where is it. I have it. A bully good way of putting a guy out of business is this. You don't want to use it in the ring because by Queensborough's rules it's a foul. But you will find it mighty useful if any thick neck comes up to you in the street and tries to start anything. It's this way. While he's setting himself up for a punch, just place the tips of the fingers of your left hand on the right side of his chest, then bring down the heel of your left hand. There isn't a guy living that could stand up against that. The fingers give you a leverage to beat the band. The guy doubles up and you uppercut him with your right and out he goes. Now I bet you never knew that before, Comrade Phil Potts. Try it on your parishioners. Cozy moments, said Mr. Wilberfloss irately, is no medium for exploiting low prize fighters. Low prize fighters? Comrade Wilberfloss, you have been misinformed. The kid is as decent a little chap as you'd meet anywhere. You do not seem to appreciate the philanthropic motives of the paper in adopting Comrade Brady's cause. Think of it, Comrade Wilberfloss. There was that unfortunate stripling with only two pleasures in life. To love his mother and to knock the heads off of other youths whose weight coincided with his own. And Miss Fortune, until we took him up, had barred him almost completely from the second pastime. Our editorial heart was melted. We adopted Comrade Brady. And look at him now, matched against Eddie Wood. And Comrade Waterman will support me in my statement that a victory over Eddie Wood means that he gets a legitimate claim to meet Jimmy Garvin for the championship. It is abominable, burst forth, Mr. Wilberfloss. It is disgraceful. I have never heard of such a thing. The paper is ruined. You keep reverting to that statement, Comrade Wilberfloss. Can nothing reassure you? The returns are excellent. Prosperity brings upon us like a sun. The proprietor is more than satisfied. The proprietor gasped Mr. Wilberfloss. Does he know how you have treated the paper? He is cognizant of our every move. And he approves. He more than approves. Mr. Wilberfloss snorted. I don't believe it, he said. The assembled ex-contributors backed up this statement with a united murmur. Be Henderson Asher snorted satirically. They don't believe it. Sidesmith, nevertheless it is true. It is not true! Thundered Mr. Wilberfloss, hopping to avoid a perambulating cat. Nothing will convince me of it. Mr. Benjamin White is not a maniac! I trust not, Sidesmith. I sincerely trust not. I have every reason to believe in his complete sanity. What makes you fancy that there is even a possibility of his being a— Nobody but a lunatic would approve of seeing his paper ruined! Again, Sidesmith, I fear that the notion that this journal is ruined has become an obsession with you, Comrade Wilberfloss. Once again I assure you that it is more than prosperous. If, said Mr. Wilberfloss, you imagine that I intend to take your word in this matter. You are mistaken. I shall cable Mr. White today and inquire whether these alterations in the paper meet with his approval. I shouldn't, Comrade Wilberfloss. Cables are expensive and in these hard times a penny saved is a penny earned. Why worry, Comrade White? He is so far away, so out of touch with our New York literary life. I think it is practically a certainty that he is not the slightest inkling of any changes in the paper. Mr. Wilberfloss uttered a cry of triumph. I knew it, he said. I knew it. I knew you would give it up when it came to the point and you were driven into a corner. Now perhaps you will admit that Mr. White has given no sanction for the alterations in the paper? A puzzled look crept into Smyth's face. I think, Comrade Wilberfloss, he said, that we are talking at cross purposes. You keep harping on Comrade White in his views and tastes. One would almost imagine that you fancy that Comrade White was the proprietor of this paper. Mr. Wilberfloss stared. A B. Henderson Asher stared. Everyone stared except Mr. Jarvis, who, since the readings from the kids' reminiscences had ceased, had lost interest in the discussion and was now entertaining the cats with a ball of paper tied to a string. Fancy that Mr. White repeated Mr. Wilberfloss. I don't follow you. Who is if he isn't? Smyth removed his monocle, polished it thoughtfully, and put it back in its place. I am, he said. End of Chapter 28 of Smyth Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse Chapter 29 and Conclusion of Smyth Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by P. G. Brea Chapter 29 The Knockout for Mr. Waring You! cried Mr. Wilberfloss. The same said Smyth. You! exclaimed Mr. Watterman Asher and the Reverend Edwin Philpots. On the spot said Smyth. Mr. Wilberfloss grouped for a chair and sat down. Am I going mad? He demanded feebly. Not so, Comrade Wilberfloss said Smyth encouragingly. All is well. The cry goes round New York. Comrade Wilberfloss is to the good. He does not give her. Do I understand you to say that you own this paper? I do. Since when? Roughly speaking, about a month. Among his audience, still accepting Mr. Jarvis, who was tickling one of the cats and whistling a plaintive melody, there was a tendency toward awkward silence. To start balleracking a seeming non-entity, and then to discover he is the proprietor of the paper to which you wish to contribute, it's like kicking an apparently empty hat and finding your rich uncle inside it. Mr. Wilberfloss in particular was disturbed. Editorships of the kind to which he aspired are not easy to get. If he were to be removed from cozy moments, he would find it hard to place himself anywhere else. Editors, like manuscripts, are rejected from want of space. A very early in my connection with this journal, said Smyth, I saw that I was on to a good thing. I had long been convinced that about the nearest approach to the perfect job in this world, where good jobs are so hard to acquire, was to own a paper. All you had to do, once you had secured your paper, was to sit back and watch the other fellow's work, and from time to time forward big checks to the bank. Nothing could be more nicely attuned to the taste of a Shropshire Smith. The glimpses I was unable to get of the workings of this little journal gave me the impression that a combat white was not attached with any paternal further cozy moments. He regarded it, I deduced, not so much as a life-work as in the light of an investment. I assumed that Comet Wright had his price and wrote to my father, who was visiting Carl's bed at the moment, to ascertain what that price might be. He cabled it to me. It was reasonable. Now it so happens that an uncle of mine some years ago left me a considerable number of simoleons, and though I shall not be legally entitled to actually close in on the opulence for a matter of nine months or so, I anticipated that my father would have no objection to staking me the necessary amount on the security of my little bit of money. My father has spent some time of late hurling me at various professions, and we had agreed some time ago that the law was to be my long suit. A paper-owning, however, may be combined with being Lord Chancellor, and I knew that he would have no objection to my being a Napoleon of the press on this side. So we closed with Comet Wright's hand. There was a knock at the door, and Master Maloney entered with a card. Guys waiting outside, he said. Mr. Stuart Waring, Redsmith. Comet Maloney, do you know what Muhammad did when the mountain would not come to him? Search me, said the office boy, indifferently. He went to the mountain. It was a wise thing to do. As a general rule in life, you can't beat it. Remember that, Comet Maloney? Sure. Shall I send it going in? Sureest thing you know, Comet Maloney. He turned it to the assembled company. Gentlemen, he said, you know how I hate to have to send you away, but would you mind withdrawing in good order? A somewhat delicate and private interview is in the offering. A comrade Jarvis, we will meet anon. Your services to the paper have been greatly appreciated. If I might drop in some afternoon and inspect the remainder of your zoo? Any time you're down Groom Street Way. Glad. I will make a point of it. A comrade Boeberfloss, if you would mind remaining, as editor of this journal, you should be present. If the rest of you would look in about this time tomorrow. A show Mr. Waring in comrade Maloney? He took a seat. We are now comrade Boeberfloss, he said, at a crisis in the affairs of this journal, but I fancy that we shall win through. The door opened, and Pugsy announced Mr. Waring. The owner of the pleasant street tenements was of what is usually called commanding presence. He was tall, and broad, and more than little stout. His face was clean-shaven, and curiously expressionless. Bushy eyebrows topped a pair of cold, gray eyes. He walked into the room with the air of one who is not want to apologize for existing. There are some men who seem to fill any room in which they may be. A Mr. Waring was one of these. He set his head down on the table without speaking, after which he looked at Mr. Wueberfloss, who shrank a little beneath his gaze. Smith had risen to greet him. Won't you sit down? he said. I prefer to stand. And just as you wish, this is Liberty Hall. Mr. Waring again glanced at Mr. Wueberfloss. What I have to say is private, he said. All is well, said Smith reassuringly. It is no stranger that you see before you, no mere irresponsible lunge who is butted in by chance. That is Cumberjay-Philiken-Wueberfloss, the editor of this journal. The editor? I understood. I know what you would say. You have Cumberd Windsor in your mind. He was merely acting as editor while the chief was away hunting sand eels in the jungles of Texas. In his absence, Cumberd Windsor and I did our best to keep the old journal booming along, but it lacked the master hand. But now, all is well, Cumberd Wueberfloss is once more doing stunts at the old stand. You may speak as freely before him as you would before, well, let us say, Cumberd Parker. Who are you, then, if this gentleman is the editor? I am the proprietor. I understood that a Mr. White was the proprietor. But not so, Sid Smith. There was a time when that was the case, but not now. As things move so swiftly in New York Journalistic matters, that a man may well be excused for not keeping abreast of the times, especially one who, like yourself, is interested in politics and house ownership rather than in literature. Are you sure that you won't sit down? Mr. Wuehring brought his hand down with a bang on the table, causing Mr. Wueberfloss to leap a clear two inches from his chair. What are you doing it for, he demanded exclusively. I tell you you would better quit it. It isn't healthy. Smith shook his head. You are merely stating another, and if I may say so inferior, words that Cumberd Parker said to us. I did not object to giving you a valuable time to listen to Cumberd Parker. He is a fascinating conversationalist, and it was a privilege to hobnob with him. But if you are merely intending to cover the ground covered by him, I fear that I must remind you that this is one of our busy days. Have you no new light to fling upon the subject? Mr. Wuehring wiped his forehead. He was playing a lost game, and he was not the sort of man who plays lost games well. The Wuehring type is dangerous when it is winning, but his apt to crumple up against strong defense. His next words proved his demoralization. I'll sue you for libel, he said. Smith looked at him admiringly. Say no more, he said, for you will never beat that. For pure richness and whimsical humor 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 Cumberd Windsor could have heard you say that. It would have hit him right. Mr. Wuehring 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. Smith 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 kibosh, 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 forward 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 perfectly 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 Smith, is the matter of these tenements. I shall shortly be leaving this country to resume this stranglehold on learning, which I relinquished at the beginning of the long vacation. If I were to depart without bringing off improvements down Pleasant Streetway, I shouldn't be able to enjoy my meals. The startled cry would go round Cambridge. Something is the matter with Smith. He is off his feed. He should try Blinken's hop's bomb for the bilious. But no bomb would do me any good. I should simply troop 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 leapt in his seat. What I proposed to do, continued Smith, 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 Smith. It may possibly have escaped your memory, but a certain minion of yours, one J. Rapado, utterly ruined a practically new hat of mine. If you think that I can afford to come to New York and scut our 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 check, 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 Smith. It's more or less of a minimum. I have made inquiries. So out with the good old checkbook, and let's all be jolly. I have no checkbook with me. I have, said Smith, producing one from the drawer, a cross out the name of my bank, and substitute yours and fate cannot touch us. Mr. Waring hesitated for a moment, then capitulated. Smith watched as he wrote, with an indulgent and fatherly eye. I finished, he said, a comrade Maloney. You's halloween for me, has that youth appearing at the door. I bet your life I am comrade Maloney. Have you ever seen an untamed mustang off the prairie? No, but I read about him. Well, run like one down to Wall Street with this check, and pay it into my account at the International Bank. Pugsie disappeared. A cheques, said Smith, 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 and your paper will stop? If you like, said Smith, I will write you a note to that effect. But it would not be necessary. I propose, with comrade Wolverfloss's assistant, to restore cozy moments to its old style. A some days ago, the editor of comrade Windsor's late daily paper called upon the telephone and asked to speak to him. I explained the painful circumstances, and later went round and hobbed knob with the great man. A very pleasant fellow. He asks to re-engage comrade Windsor's services at a pretty sizable salary, so as far as our prison expert is concerned, all may be said to be well. He has got what he wanted. Cozy moments may therefore ease up a bit. If, at the beginning of the next month, you should hear a deafening squeal of joy ring through the city, it will be the infants of New York and their parents receiving the news that cozy moments stands where it did. May I count on your services, comrade Wolverfloss? Excellent. I see I may. As in perhaps you would not mind passing the word round among comrade's Asher Waterman and the rest of the squad, and telling them to burnish their brains and be ready to wait 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 Wolverfloss. Are you on? Mr. Wolverfloss, wriggling in his chair, intimated that he was. Conclusion It was a drizzly November evening. The streets of Cambridge were a compound of mud, mist, and melancholy. But in Smith's rooms, the fire burned brightly, the kettle drowned, and all, as the proprietor had just observed, was joy, jollity, and song. Smith, in pajamas and a college blazer, was lying on the sofa. Mike, who had been playing football, was reclining in a comatose state in an armchair by the fire. How pleasant it would be, said Smith dreamily, if all our friends on the other side of the Atlantic could share this very peaceful moment with us. Or perhaps not quite all. And let us say a comrade Windsor in the chair over there, comrade Brady and Maloney on the table, and our old pal Wolverfloss sharing the floor with B. Henderson Asher, Bat Jarvis, and the cats. By the way, I think it would be a graceful act if you were to write to comrade Jarvis from time to time by telling him how your engoras are getting on. He regards you as the world's most prominent citizen, a lion from you every now and then would sweeten the lads' existence. Mike stirred sleepily in his chair. He said drowsily, and never mind comrade Jackson, let us pass lightly on. I am filled with a strange content tonight. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that all is singularly to the good, as comrade Maloney would put it. Advices from comrade Windsor inform me that the Prince of Blighters, wearing, was rejected by an intelligent electorate. Those keen, clear-sighted citizens refused to vote for him to an extent that you could notice without a microscope. Still, he has one consolation. He owns what, when the improvements are completed, will be one of the finest and most commodious tenement houses in New York. Millionaires will stop at them instead of going to the plaza. Are you asleep, comrade Jackson? Mmm, said Mike. That is excellent. You could not be better employed. I keep listening. A comrade Windsor also stated, as did indeed the sporting papers, that comrade Brady put it all over friend Eddie Wood, administering the sleep producer in the eighth round. My authorities are silent as to whether or not the lethal blow was a half-scissor hook, but I presume such to have been the case. The kid is now definitely matched against comrade Garvin for the championship, and the experts seem to think that he should win. He is a stout fellow as comrade Brady, and I hope he wins through. He will probably come to England later on. When he does, we must show him round. I don't think you ever met him, did you, comrade Jackson? Errr, said Mike. Say no more, said Smith. I take you. He reached out for a cigarette. These, he said comfortably, are the moments in life to which we look back with that wistful pleasure. What have my boyhood had eaten? Do I remember with keenest joy the brain-tornies in the old form-room and the belly-rot which used to take place on the Fourth of June? No. Burned deeply into my memory as a certain hot bath I took after one of the foulest cross-country runs that ever occurred outside Dante's Inferno. So, with the present moment, this peaceful scene, comrade Jackson, will remain with me when I have forgotten that such a person as comrade Rapetto ever existed. These are the real cozy moments. And while on that subject you will be glad to hear that the little sheet is going strong, the man Wilber Floss is a marvel in his way. He appears to have gathered in the majority of the old subscribers again, hopping man, but a brief while ago, they now eat out of his hand. You freely don't notion what a feeling of quiet pride it gives you owning a paper. I try not to show it, but I seem to myself to be looking down on the world from some lofty peak. A yesterday night when I was looking down from the peak without a cap and gown, a proctor slid up. Today I have had to dig down into my genes for a matter of two planks. But what of it? Life must inevitably be dotted with these minor tragedies. I do not for pine. The whisper goes round, Smith bites the bullet and wears a brave smile. Comrade Jackson, a snore, came from the chair. Smith sighed, but he did not for pine. He bit the bullet. His eyes closed. Five minutes later a slight snore came from the sofa, too. The man behind the cozy moments slept. End of Chapter 29 and Conclusion of Smith Journalist End of Smith Journalist by P. G. Boadhouse