 CHAPTER XIII. REVIEWING THE SITUATION. Arriving at the bed-sitting-room, Billy proceeded to occupy the rocking-chair, and, as was his want, began to rock himself rhythmically to and fro. Smith seated himself gracefully on the couch-bed. There was a silence. The events of the evening had been a revelation to Smith. He had not realized before the extent of the ramifications of New York's underworld. That members of the gangs should crop up in the Astor Roof Garden, and in gorgeous raiment in the middle of Broadway was a surprise. When Billy Windsor had mentioned the gangs, he had formed a mental picture of low-browed hooligans keeping carefully to their own quarter of the town. This picture had been correct as far as it went, but it had not gone far enough. The bulk of the gangs of New York are of the hooligan class and are rarely met with outside of their natural boundaries. But each gang has its more prosperous members. Gentlemen, who like the men of the Astor Roof Garden, support life by more delicate and genteel methods than the rest. The main body rely for their incomes, except at election time, on such primitive feats as robbing intoxicated pedestrians. The aristocracy of the gangs soar higher. It was a considerable time before Billy spoke. Say, he said, this thing wants talking over. By all means, Comrade Windsor. It's this way. There's no doubt now that we're up against a mighty big proposition. Something of the sort would seem to be the case. It's like this. I'm going to see this through. It isn't only that I want to do a bit of good to the pork cusses in those tenements, though I'd do it for that alone. But as far as I'm concerned, there's something to it besides that. If we win out, I'm going to get a job out of one of the big dailies. It'll give me just the chance I need. See what I mean? Well, it's different with you. I don't see that it's up to you to run the risk of getting yourself put out of business with a blackjack and maybe shot. Once you get mixed up with the gangs, there's no saying what's going to be doing. Well, I don't see why you shouldn't quit. All this has got nothing to do with you. You were over here on vacation. You haven't got to make a living this side. You want to go out and have a good time instead of getting mixed up with? He broke off. Well, that's what I wanted to say anyway, he concluded. Smith looked at him reproachfully. Are you trying to sack me, Comrade Windsor? How's that? In various treatises on how to succeed in literature, said Smith, sadly, which I have read from time to time, I have always found it stated that what the novice chiefly needed was an editor who believed in him. In you, Comrade Windsor, I fancied that I had found such an editor. What's all this about, demanded Billy? I'm making no kick about your work. I gathered from your remarks that you were anxious to receive my resignation. Well, I told you why. I didn't want you to be blackjacked. Was that the only reason? Sure. Then all is well, said Smith relieved. For the moment, I fancy that my literary talents had been weighed in the balance and adjudged below par. If that is all, why these are the mere everyday risks of the young journalist's life. Without them, we should be dull and dissatisfied. Our work would lose its fire. Men such as ourselves, Comrade Windsor, need a certain stimulus, a certain Philip, if they are to keep up their high standards. The knowledge that a low-browed gentleman is waiting around the corner with a sandbag poised in the air will just supply that stimulus. Also, that Philip. It will give our output precisely the edge it requires. Then you'll stay in this thing? You'll stick to the work? Like a conscientious leech, Comrade Windsor? Bully for you, said Billy. It was not Smith's habit when he felt deeply on any subject to exhibit his feelings, and this manner of the tenements had hit him harder than anyone who did not know him intimately would have imagined. Mike would have understood him, but Billy was too recent an acquaintance. Smith was one of those people who are content to accept most of the happenings of life in an airy spirit of tolerance. Life had been more or less of a game with him up till now. In his previous encounters with those with whom fate had brought him in contact, there had been little at stake. The prize of victory had been merely a comfortable feeling of having had the best in a battle of wits. The penalty of defeat, nothing worse than the discomfort of having failed to score. But this tenement business was different. Here he had touched the realities. There was something worth fighting for. His lot had been cast in pleasant places, and the sight of actual raw misery had come to him with an added force from that circumstance. He was fully aware of the risks that he must run. The words of the men at the Aster, and still more the episodes of the family friend from Missouri and the taxi-meter cab, had shown him that this thing was on a different plane from anything that had happened to him before. It was a fight without the gloves and to a finish at that, but he meant to see it through. Somehow or other those tenement houses had got to be cleaned up. If it meant trouble, as it undoubtedly did, that trouble would have to be faced. Now that Comrade Jarvis, he said, showing a spirit of forbearance which, I am bound to say, does him credit, has declined the congenial task of fracturing our oxiputs, who should you say, Comrade Windsor, would be the chosen substitute? Billy shook his head. Now that Bat has turned up the job, it might be any one of three gangs. There are four main gangs, you know. Bat's is the biggest. But the smallest of them is large enough to put us away if we give them the chance. I don't quite grasp the nice points of this matter. Do you mean that we have an entire gang on our trail in one solid mass, or will it merely be a section? Well, a section, I guess, if it comes to that. Parker, or whoever fixed this thing up, would go to the main boss of the gang. If it was the three points he'd go to Spider Riley. If it was the Table Hill lot he'd look up to Dodson. And so on. And what then? And then the boss would talk whatever with his own special partners. Every gang leader has about a dozen of them, a sort of inner circle. They'd fix it up among themselves. The rest of the gang wouldn't know anything about it. The fewer in the game you see, the fewer to split up the dollars. I see. Then things are not so black. All we have to do is look out for about a dozen hooligans with a natural dignity in their bearing, the result of intimacy with the main boss. Carefully eluding these aristocrats, we shall win through. I fancy, Comrade Windsor, that all may yet be well. What steps do you propose to take by way of self-defense? Keep out of the middle of the street and not go off the broadway after dark. You're pretty safe on broadway. There's too much light for them there. Now that our sleuth-hound friend in the taximeter has ascertained your address, shall you change it? It wouldn't do any good. They'd soon find out where I'd gone to. How about yours? I fancy I shall be tolerably all right. A particularly massive policeman is on duty at my very doors. So much for our private lives. But what of the daytime? Suppose these sandbag specialists drop into the office during business hours. Will Comrade Maloney's frank and manly statement that we are not in be sufficient to keep them out? I doubt it. All unused to the nice conventions of polite society these rugged persons will charge through. In such circumstances good work will be hard to achieve. Your literary man must have complete quiet if he is to give the public of his best. But stay. An idea. Well, Comrade Brady, the peerless kid. The man cozy moments is running for the lightweight championship. We are his pugilistic sponsors. You may say that is entirely owing to our efforts that he has obtained this match with who exactly is the gentleman Comrade Brady fights at the Highfield Club on Friday night? A cyclone owl woman, isn't it? You are right. As I was saying, but for us the privilege of smiting Comrade Cyclone Owl Woman under the fifth rib on Friday night would almost certainly have been denied to him. It almost seemed as if you were right. From the moment the paper had taken up his cause, kid Brady's star had undoubtedly been in the ascendant. People began to talk about him as a likely man. Edgren, in the evening world, had a paragraph about his chances for the lightweight title. Ted, in the journal, drew a picture of him. Finally, the management of the Highfield Club had signed him for a 10 round bout with Mr. Woolman. There were, therefore, reasons why cozy moments should feel acclaim on the kid's services. He should, continued Smith, if equipped in any degree with finer feeling, be bubbling over with gratitude towards us. But for cozy moments he should be saying to himself, where should I be among the also rands? I imagine that he will do any little thing that we care to ask of him. I suggest that we approach Comrade Brady, explain the facts of the case, and offer him at a comfortable salary the post of fighting editor of cozy moments. His duties will be to sit in the room opening out of ours, girded as to the loins and full of martial spirit, and apply some of those half-scissor hooks of hits to the persons of any who overcome the opposition of Comrade Maloney. We, meanwhile, will enjoy that leisure and freedom from interruption which is so essential to the artist. It's not a bad idea, said Billy. It is about the soundest idea, said Smith, that has ever been struck. One of your newspaper friends shall supply us with tickets, and Friday night shall see us at the high field. Chapter 14 The High Field Far up, at the other end of the island, on the banks of the Harlem River, there stands the old warehouse which modern progress is converted into the high-field athletic and gymnastics club. The imagination, stimulated by the title, conjures up a sort of national sporting club, with pictures on the walls, padding on the chairs, and a sea of white shirt fronts from roof to floor. But the high field differs in some respects from this fancy picture. Indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it does not differ. But these names are so misleading. The title, under which the high-field used to be known until a few years back, was Swifty Bobs. It was a good, honest title. You knew what to expect, and if you attended seances at Swifty Bobs, you left your gold watch and your little savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugelistic feelings swept over the New York authorities. Promoters of boxing contests found themselves, to their acute disgust, raided by the police. The industry began to languish. People avoided places where, at any moment, the festivities might be marred by an inrush of large men in blue uniforms armed with locust sticks. And then some big-brained person suggested the club idea, which stands alone as an example of American dry humor. There are now no boxing contests in New York. Swifty Bob and his fellows would be shocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happens now is exhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true that next day the papers very tactlessly report the friendly exhibition spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that is not the fault of Swifty Bob. Kid Brady, the chosen of cozy moments, was billed for a ten-round exhibition contest to be the main event of the evening's entertainment. No decisions are permitted at these clubs. Unless a regrettable accident occurs and one of the sparrers is knocked out, the verdict is left to the newspapers the next day. It is not uncommon to find a man win easily in the world, draw in the American, and be badly beaten in the evening mail. The system leads to a certain amount of confusion, but it has the merit of offering consolation to the much-smitten warrior. The best method of getting to the high field is by the subway. To see the subway in its most characteristic mood, one must travel on it during the rush hour, when its patrons are packed into the carriages and one solid jam by muscular guards and policemen, shoving in a manner reminiscent of a rugby football scrum. When Smith and Billy entered it on the Friday evening, it was comparatively empty. All the seats were occupied, but only a few of the straps and hardly any of the space reserved by law for the conductor alone. Conversation on the subway is impossible. The ingenious gentleman who constructed it started with the object of making it noisy. Not ordinarily noisy, like a ton of coal falling on a sheet of tin, but really noisy, so they fashioned the pillars of thin steel and the sleepers of thin wood and loosened all the nuts, and now a subway-trained motion suggests a prolonged dynamite explosion blended with the voice of some great cataract. Smith, forced into temporary silence by this combination of noises, started to make up for lost time on arriving in the street once more. A thoroughly unpleasant neighborhood, he said, critically surveying the dark streets. I fear me, Comrade Windsor, that we have been somewhat rash in venturing as far to the middle west as this. If ever there was a blighted locality where low-browed desperadoes might be expected to spring with groups of joy from every corner, this blighted locality is that blighted locality. But we must carry on. In which direction should you say does this arena lie? It had begun to rain as they left Billy's lodgings. Smith turned up the collar of his Burberry. We suffer much in the cause of literature, he said. Let us inquire of this genial soul if he knows where the high-field is. The pedestrian referred to proved to be going there himself. They went on together, Smith, critically offering views on the weather and forecasts of the success of Kid Brady in the approaching contest. Rattling on, he was alluding to the prominent part Cosy Moments had played in the affair when a rough thrust from Windsor's elbow brought home to him his indiscretion. He stopped suddenly, wishing he had not said as much. Their connection with that militant journal was not a thing even to be suggested to casual acquaintances, especially in such a particularly ill-lighted neighborhood as that through which they were now passing. Their companion, however, who seemed to be a man of small speech, made no comment. Smith deftly turned the conversation back to the subject of the weather, and was deep in a comparison of the respective climates of England and of the United States, when they turned a corner and found themselves opposite a gloomy, barn-like building, over the door of which it was just possible to decipher in the darkness the words High-Field Athletic and Gymnastic Club. The tickets which Billy Windsor had obtained from his newspaper friend were for one of the boxes. These proved to be sort of sheep pens of unpolished wood, each with four hard chairs in it. The interior of the High-Field Athletic and Gymnastic Club was severely free from anything in the shape of luxury and ornament. Along the four walls were raised benches and tiers. On these were seated as tough-looking a collection of citizens as one might wish to see. On chairs at the ringside were the reporters, with tickers at their sides, by means of which they tapped details of each round through to their different downtown offices, where write-up reporters were waiting to read off and elaborate the messages. In the center of the room, brilliantly lighted by half a dozen electric chandeliers, was the ring. There were preliminary bouts before the main event. A burly gentleman in shirt sleeves entered the ring, followed by two slim youths in fighting costume and a massive person in a red jersey, blue search trousers and yellow braces, who chewed gum with an abstracted air throughout the proceedings. The burly gentleman gave tongue in a voice that cleft the air like a cannonball. Exhibition four round bat between Patsy Milligan and Tommy Goodlee, members of this club. Patsy on my right, Tommy on my left. Gentlemen, we'll kindly stop smoking. The audience did nothing of the sort. Possibly they did not apply the description to themselves. Possibly they considered the appeal a mere formula. Somewhere in the background a gong sounded and Patsy from the right, stepped briefly forward to meet Tommy, approaching from the left. The contest was short but energetic. At intervals the combatants would cling affectionately to one another, and on these occasions the red jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the same air of being lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass by the simple method of plowing his way between the pair. Towards the end of the first round, Thomas, eluding a left swing, put Patrick neatly to the floor, with a latter remain for the necessary ten seconds. The remaining preliminaries proved disappointing, so much so that in the last of the series a soured sportsman on one of the benches near the roof began in a satirical mood to whistle the merry widow Waltz. It was here that the red jerseyed thinker, for the first and last time, came out of his meditative trance. He leaned over the ropes and spoke, without heat, but firmly. If that guy whistling back up yonder thinks he can do better than these boys, he can come right down into the ring. The whistling ceased. There was a distinct air of relief when the last preliminary was finished and preparations for the main bout began. It did not commence at once. There were formalities to be gone through, introductions and the like. The burly gentleman reappeared from nowhere, ushering into the ring a sheepishly grinning youth in a final suit. Introducing young Larry, he bellowed impressively, a new member of this club who will box some good boy here in September. He walked to the other side of the ring and repeated the remark. A raucous welcome was accorded to the new member. Two other notable performers were introduced in a similar manner, and then the building became suddenly full of noise, for a tall youth in a bathrobe attended by a little army of assistants had entered the ring. One of the army carried a bright green bucket, on which were painted in white letters the words Cyclone Owl Woman. A moment later, there was another, though far lesser uproar, as Kid Brady, his pleasant face wearing a self-conscious smirk, ducked under the ropes and sat down in the opposite corner. Exhibition Ten Round Bout, thundered the burly gentleman, between Cyclone Owl Woman. Loud applause. Mr. Woman was one of the famous, a fighter with a reputation from New York to San Francisco. He was generally considered the most likely man to give the hitherto invincible Jimmy Garvin a hard battle for the lightweight championship. Oh, you owl! roared the crowd. Mr. Woman bowed benevolently. And, Kid Brady, members of this? There was noticeably less applause for the kid. He was an unknown. A few of those present had heard of his victories in the West, but those were but a small section of the crowd. When the faint applause had ceased, Smith rose to his feet. Oh, you kid! he observed encouragingly. I should not, like Comrade Brady, he said, receding himself, to think that he has no friend but his poor old mother, as you will recollect occurred on a previous occasion. The burly gentleman, followed by the two armies of assistants, dropped down from the ring, and the gong sounded. Mr. Woman sprang from his corner as if somebody had touched a spring. He seemed to be of the opinion that if you are a Cyclone, it is never too soon to begin behaving like one. He danced round the kid with an India rubber agility. The cozy moments representative exhibited Morse Delidity, except for the fact that he was an infighting attitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in the neighborhood of his stocky chest, and the other pawing the arrow in line with his square jaw, one would have said that he did not realize the position of affairs. He wore the friendly smile of the good-natured guest who was led forward by his hostess to join in some round game. Suddenly his opponent's long left shot out. The kid, who had been strolling forward, received it under the chin, and continued to stroll forward as if nothing of note had happened. He gave the impression of being aware that Mr. Woman had committed a breach of good taste, and of being resolved to pass it off with ready tact. The Cyclone, having executed it backward leap, a forward leap, and a faint, landed heavily with both hands. The kid's genial smile did not even quiver, but he continued to move forward. His opponent's left flashed out again, but this time, instead of ignoring the matter, the kid replied with a heavy right swing, and Mr. Woman, leaping back, found himself against the ropes. By the time he had gotten out of that uncongenial position, two more of the kid's swings had found their mark. Mr. Woman, somewhat perturbed, scuttled out into the middle of the ring, the kid following in his self-contained, solid way. The Cyclone now became still more cyclonic. He had a left arm that seemed to open out in joints like a telescope. Several times when the kid appeared well out of distance, there was a thud as a brown glub ripped in over his guard and dirked his head back. But always he kept boring in, delivering an occasional right to the body with the pleased smile of an infant destroying a Noah's Ark with a tack hammer. Despite these efforts, however, he was plainly getting all the worst of it. Energetic Mr. Woman, relying on his long left, was putting in three blows to his one. When that gong sounded, ending the first round, the house was practically solid for the Cyclone. Whoops and yells rose from everywhere, the building rang with shouts of, Oh, you owl! Smith turned sadly to Billy. It seems to me, Comrade Windsor, he said, that this merry meeting looks like doing Comrade Brady no good. I should not be surprised at any moment to see his head bounce off onto the floor. Wait, said Billy, he'll win yet. You think so? Sure, he comes from Wyoming, said Billy with simple confidence. Rounds two and three were a repetition of round one. The Cyclone raged almost unchecked about the ring. In one lightning rally in the third, he brought his right across squarely onto the kid's jaw. It was a blow which should have knocked any boxer out. The kid really staggered slightly and returned to business, still smiling. See? Were Billy enthusiastically in Smith's ear above the upper, he doesn't mind it. He likes it. He comes from Wyoming. With the opening of round four, there came a subtle change. The Cyclone's fury was expending itself. That long left shot out less sharply. Instead of being knocked back by it, the cozy moments champion now took the hits in his stride and came shuffling in with his damaging body blows. There were cheers and, Oh, you owls! at the sound of the gong, but there was an appealing note in them this time. The gallant sportsman, whose connection with boxing was confined to watching other men fight and betting on what they considered a certainty, and who would have expired promptly if anyone had tapped them sharply on their well-filled waistcoats, were beginning to fear that they might lose their money after all. In the fifth round, the thing became a certainty. Like the months of March, the Cyclone, who had come in like a lion, was going out like a lamb. A slight decrease in the pleasantness of the kid's smile was noticeable. His expression began to resemble more nearly the gloomy importance of the cozy moments' photographs. Yells of agony from panic-stricken speculators around the ring began to smite their afters. The Cyclone, now but a gentle breeze, clutched repeatedly, hanging on like a leech till removed by the Red Jersey referee. Suddenly a grisly silence fell upon the house. It was broken by a cowboy yell from Billy Windsor. For the kid, battered, but obviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring while on the ropes the Cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowly to the floor. Cozy moments' winds, said Smith, an omen, I fancy comrade Windsor. End of Chapter 14 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Boathouse Chapter 15 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 Psuke Borea. Chapter 15 An Addition to the Staff Penetrating into the kid's dressing room some moments later, the editorial staff found the winner of the 10-round exhibition bout between members of the club seated on a chair, having his right leg rubbed by a shock-headed man in a sweater, who had been one of his seconds during the conflict. The kid beamed as they entered. Gents, he said, come right in! Mighty glad to see you. It is a relief to me, comrade Brady, said Smith, to find that you can see us. I had expected to find that comrade Woolman's purposeful buffs had completely closed your star-likes. Sure, I never felt them. He's a good quick boy as Al, but continued the kid with powerful imagery. He couldn't hit a hole in a block of ice cream. Not if he was to use a hammer. And yet, at one period in the proceedings, comrade Brady, said Smith, I fancied that your head would come unglued at the neck. But the fear was merely transient. When you began to administer those, am I correct in saying, half-scissor hooks to the body? Why, then, I felt like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken. Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes, he stared at the Pacific. The kid blinked. How's that? He inquired. And why did I feel like that, comrade Brady? I will tell you. Because my faith in you was justified. Because there, before me, stood the ideal fighting editor of cozy moments. It is not a post that any weakling can fill. There, charm of manner cannot qualify a man for the position. No one can hold down the job simply by having a kind heart, or by being good at farmyard invitations. No, we want a man of thues and sinews, a man who would rather be hit on the head with a half-brick than not. And you, comrade Brady, are such a man. The kid turned appealingly to Billy. Say, this kid's past me, Mr. Inzer. Put me wise. Can we have a couple of words with you alone, kid? said Billy. We want to talk over something with you. Sure, sit down, gents. Jack'll be through in a minute. Jack, who during this conversation had been concentrating himself on his subject's left leg, now announced that he guessed that would about do, and having advised the kid not to stop and pick daisies, but to get into his clothes at once before he caught a chill, bade the company goodnight and retired. Billy shut the door. Kid, he said, you know those articles about the tenements we've been having in the paper? Sure, I read them. They're do the good. Smith bowed. You stimulate us, comrade Brady. This is praise from Sir Hubert Stanley. It was about time some strong josher came and put it across to him, added the kid. So we thought. Comrade Parker, however, totally disagreed with us. Parker? That's what I'm coming to, said Billy. The day before yesterday, a man named Parker called at the office and tried to buy us off. Billy's voice grew indignant at the recollection. You gave him the hook, I guess, curried the interested kid. To such an extent, comrade Brady, said Smith, that he left breathing threatenings and slaughter, and it is for that reason that we have ventured to call upon you. It's this way, said Billy. We're pretty sure by this time that whoever the man is this fellow Parker's working for has put one of the gangs onto us. You don't say, exclaimed the kid. Come, Mr. Windsor, they're tough propositions, those gangs. We've been followed in the streets and once they put up a bluff to get us where they could do us in. So we've come along to you. We can look after ourselves out of the office, you see. But what we want is someone to help in case they try and rush us there. In brief, a fighting editor, said Smith. At all cost, we must have privacy. No writer can prune and polish his sentences to his satisfaction if he is compelled constantly to break off in order to eject boisterous hooligans. We therefore offer to you the job of sitting in the outer room and intercepting these bravos before they can reach us. The salary we leave to you. There are doubloons and despair in the old oak chest. Take what you need and put the rest, if any, back. How does the offer strike, you comrade Brady? We don't want to get you in under false pretenses, kid, said Billy. Of course, they may not come anywhere near the office, but still if they did, there would be something doing. What do you feel about it? Gents, said the kid, it's this way. He stepped into his coat and resumed. Now that I've made good by getting the decision over all, they'll be giving me a chance of a big fight, maybe with Jimmy Garvin. Well, if that happens, see what I mean? I'll have to be going away somewhere and getting into training. I shouldn't be able to come and sit with you. But if you gents feel like it, I'd be mighty glad to come in till I'm wanted to go into training camp. Great, said Billy, that would suit us all the way up. If you do that, kid, we'd be tickled to death. And touching salary, put in Smith. Chucks, said the kid with emphasis, nicks on the salary thing. I wouldn't take a dime. If it hadn't been for you, gents, I'd have been waiting still for a chance of running up in the championship class. That's good enough for me. Any old thing you gents want me to do, I'll do it, and glad too. Comrade Brady, said Smith warmly, you are, if I may say so, the goods. You are beyond a doubt, supremely the stuff. We three then, hand in hand, will face the foe. And if the foe has good sound sense, he will keep right away. You appear to be ready. Shall we meander forth? The building was empty and the lights were out when they emerged from the dressing room. They had to grope their way in darkness. It was still raining when they reached the street, and the only signs of life were a moist policeman and the distant glare of public house lights down the road. They turned off to the left, and after walking some hundred yards, found themselves in a blind alley. Hello, said Billy, where have we come to? Smith sighed. In my trusting way, he said, I had imagined that either you or Comrade Brady was in charge of this expedition, and taking me by a known route to the nearest subway station. I did not think to ask. I placed myself, without hesitation, wholly in your hands. I thought the kid knew the way, said Billy. I was just tagging along with you, gents! Protested the lightweight, I thought you was taking me right. This is the first time I've been up here. Next time we three go on a little jaunt anywhere, said Smith presidedly, it would be as well to take a map and a core of guides with us. Otherwise, we shall start for Broadway, and finish up at Minneapolis. They emerged from the blind alley and stood in the dark street, looking doubtfully up and down it. Aha! said Smith suddenly. I perceive a native. Several natives, in fact. Quite a little convoy of them. We will put our case before them, concealing nothing, and rely on their advice to take us to our goal. A little knot of men was approaching from the left. In the darkness it was impossible to say how many of them there were. Smith stepped forward, the kid at his side. Excuse me, sir, he said to the leader, but if you can spare me a moment of your valuable time. There was a sudden shuffle of feet on the pavement, a quick movement on the part of the kid, a chunky sound as of wood striking wood, and the man Smith had been addressing fell to the ground in a heap. As he fell, something dropped from his hand to the pavement with a bump and a rattle. Stooping swiftly, the kid picked it up and handed it to Smith. His fingers closed upon it. It was a short, wicked-looking little bludgeon, the blackjack of the New York Tuff. Get busy, advised the kid briefly. End of Chapter 15 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse Chapter 16 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 Psuke Borea. Chapter 16 The First Battle The promptitude and dispatch with which the kid had attended to the gentleman with the blackjack had not been without its effect on the followers of the stricken one. Physical courage is not an outstanding quality of the New York hooligan. His personal preference is for retreat when it is a question of unpleasantness with a stranger. And in any case, even when warring among themselves, the gangs exhibit a lively distaste for the hard knocks of hand-to-hand fighting. Their chosen method of battling is to lie down on the ground and shoot. This is more suited to their physique, which is rarely great. The gang's men, as a rule, is stunted and slight of build. The kid's rapid work on the present occasion created a good deal of confusion. There was no doubt that much had been hoped for from speedy attack. Also, the general ship of the expedition had been in the hands of the fallen warrior. His removal from the sphere of active influence had left the party without a head. And to add to their discomforture, they could not account for the kid. Smith they knew, and Billy Windsor they knew, but who was the stranger with the square shoulders and the uppercut that landed like a cannon-ball? Something approaching a panic prevailed among the gang. It was not lessened by the behaviour of the intended victims. Billy Windsor armed with the big stick which he had bought after the visit of Mr. Parker was the first to join issue. He had been a few steps behind the others during the Blackjack incident, but, dark as it was, he had seen enough to show him that the occasion was, as Smith would have said, one for the shrewd blow rather than the prolonged parley. With a whoop of the purest Wyoming brand, he sprang forward into the confused mass of the enemy. A moment later Smith and the kid followed, and there raged over the body of the fallen leader a battle of Homeric type. It was not a long affair. The rules and conditions governing the encounter offended the delicate sensibilities of the gang. Like artists who feel themselves trampled by distasteful conventions, they were damped and could not do themselves justice. Their forte was long-range fighting with pistols, with that they felt unrepore. But this vulgar brawling in the darkness with muscular opponents who hit hard and often with sticks and hands was distasteful to them. They could not develop any enthusiasm for it. They carried pistols, but it was too dark, and the combatants were too entangled to allow them to use these. Besides, this was not the dear homely old Bowery, where a gentleman may fire a pistol without exciting vulgar comment. It was uptown, where curious crowds might collect at the first shot. There was but one thing to be done. Reluctant as they might be to abandon their fallen leader, they must tear themselves away. Already they were suffering grievously from the stick, the blackjack, and the lightning blows of the kid. For a moment they hung, wavering, then stampeded in half a dozen different directions, melting into the night once they had come. Billy, full of zeal, pursued one fugitive some fifty yards down the street, but his quarry, exhibiting a rarer turn of speed, easily outstripped him. He came back, panting, to find Smith and the kid examining the fallen leader of the departed ones with the aid of a match, which went out just as Billy arrived. It is our friend from the earlier part of the evening, Comrade Windsor, said Smith, the merchant with whom we hobnobbed on our way to the high-field. In a moment of imprudence I mentioned cozy moments. I fancy that this was his first intimation that we were in the offing. His visit to the high-field was paid, I think, purely from sport-loving motives. He was not on our trail. He came merely to see if Comrade Brady was proficient with his hands. The subsequent events must have justified our fighting editor in his eyes. It seems to be a moot point whether he will ever recover consciousness. Mighty good thing if he doesn't, said Billy, uncharitably. A from one point of view, Comrade Windsor, yes, such an event would undoubtedly be an excellent thing for the public good. But from our point of view, it would be as well if he were to sit up and take notice. We could ascertain from him who he is and which particular collection of horny hands he represents. In light of another match, Comrade Brady, the kid did so. The head of it fell off and dropped upon the upturned face. The hooligan stirred, shook himself, sat up, and began to mutter something in a foggy voice. He's still woozy, said the kid. Still, what exactly, Comrade Brady? In the air, explained the kid, bats in the bell-free dizzy. See what I mean? It's often like that when a fella puts one in with a bit of weight behind it just where that one landed. Come. I remember when I fought Martin Kelly. I was only starting to learn the game then. Martin and me was mixing it good and hard all over the ring when suddenly he puts over a stiff one right on the point. What do you think I'd done? Fall down and take the count? Not on your life. I just turns around and walks straight out of the ring to my dressing room. Willie Harvey, who was seconding me, comes tearing in after me and finds me getting into my clothes. What's doing, kiddy-ass? I'm going fishing, Willie, I says. It's a lovely day. You've lost the fight, he says. Fight, says I. What fight? See what I mean? I had an notion of what had happened. It was half an hour or more before I could remember a thing. During this reminiscence, the man on the ground had contrived to clear his mind of the mischievous induced by the kid's uppercut. The first sign he showed of returning intelligence was a sudden dash for safety up the road, but he had not gone five yards when he sat down limply. The kid was inspired to further reminiscence. Guess he's feeling pretty poor, he said. It's no good him trying to run for a while after he's put his chin in the way of a real live one. I remember when Joe Peterson put me out way back when I was new to the game. It was the same year I fought Martin Kelly. He had an awful punch at old Joe, and he put me down and out in the eighth round. After the fight, they found me on the fire escape outside of my dressing room. Come in, kid, says they. It's all right, chaps, I says. I'm Diane. Just like that. It's all right, chaps. I'm Diane. Same with this guy. See what I mean? They formed a group about the fallen Blackjack expert. Pardon us, said Smith courteously, for breaking in upon your reverie, but if you could spare us a moment of your valuable time, there are one or two things we should like to know. Sure thing, agreed the kid. In the first place, continued Smith, would it be betraying professional secrets if you told us which particular bevy of energetic sandbaggers it is to which you are attached? Gent, explained the kid, wants to know what's your gang. The man on the ground muttered something that to Smith and Billy was unintelligible. It would be a charity, said the former, if some philanthropist would give this blood a relicution lesson. Can you interpret, comrade Brady? Says it's the three points, said the kid. The three points. Let me see, is that Dude Dawson, comrade Runzer, or the other gentleman? It's Spider Riley. Dude Dawson runs the table hill crowd. Perhaps this is Spider Riley? Nope, said the kid. I know the spider. This ain't him. This is some other mutt. Which other mutt in particular, asked Smith, try and find out, comrade Brady. You seem to be able to understand what he says. To me personally, his remarks sound like the output of a gramophone with a hot potato in its mouth. Says he's Jack Rapetto, announced the interpreter. There was another interruption at this moment. The bashful Mr. Rapetto, plainly a man who was not happy in the society of strangers, made another attempt to withdraw. Reaching out a pair of lean hands, he pulled the kid's legs out from under him with a swift jerk and, wriggling to his feet, started off again down the road. Once more, however, desire outran performance. He got as far as the nearest street lamp, but no farther. The giddiness seemed to overcome him again, for he grasped the lamp post and, sliding slowly to the ground, sat there, motionless. The kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to be wrathful and vindictive. He was the first of the three to reach the elusive Mr. Rapetto, and, if that worthy had happened to be standing instead of sitting, it might have gone hard with him. But the kid was not the man to attack a fallen foe. He contended himself with brushing the dust off his person, and addressing a richly abusive flow of remarks to Mr. Rapetto. Under the rays of the lamp, it was possible to discern more closely the features of the blackjack exponent. There was a subtle but noticeable resemblance to those of Mr. Bat Jarvis. Apparently the letters oiled forelock, worn lower the forehead, was more a concession to the general fashion prevailing in gang circles than an expression of personal taste. Mr. Rapetto had it too. In his case it was almost white, for the fallen warrior was an albino. His eyes, which were closed, had white laches, and were set as near together as nature had been able to manage, without actually running them into one another. His underlip protruded and drooped. Looking at him, one felt instinctively that no judging committee of a beauty contest would hesitate a moment before him. It soon became apparent that the light of the lamp, though bestowing the doubtful privilege of a clearer view of Mr. Rapetto's face, held certain disadvantages. Scarcely had the staff of cozy moments reach the faint yellow pool of light, in the center of which Mr. Rapetto reclined, then, with a suddenness which caused them to leap into the air, there sounded from the darkness down the road the crack, crack, crack of a revolver. Instantly from the opposite direction came other shots. Three bullets flicked grooves in the roadway almost at Billy's feet. The kid gave a sudden howl. Smith's hat, suddenly imbued with life, sprang into the air and vanished, whirling into the night. The thought did not come to them consciously at the moment, there being little time to think, but it was evident as soon as, diving out of the circle of light into the sheltering darkness, they crouched down and waited for the next move that a somewhat skilful ambush had been affected. The other members of the gang, who had fled with such remarkable speed, had by no means been eliminated altogether from the game. While the questioning of Mr. Rapetto had been in progress, they had crept back, unperceived except by Mr. Rapetto himself. It being too dark for successful shooting, it had become Mr. Rapetto's task to lure his captors into the light, which he had accomplished with considerable skill. For some minutes the battle halted. There was dead silence. The circle of light was empty now, Mr. Rapetto had vanished. A tentative shot from nowhere ripped through the air close to where Smith lay flattened on the pavement. And then the pavement began to vibrate and give out a curious resonant sound. To Smith it conveyed nothing, but to the opposing army it meant much. They knew it for what it was. Somewhere, it might be near or far, a policeman had heard the shots and was signaling for help to other policemen along the line by beating on the flagstones with his night stick, the New York Constable's substitute for the London police whistle. The noise grew, filling the still air. From somewhere down the road sounded the ring of running feet. Dekops! Credit voice, beat it! The next moment the night was full of clatter. The gang was beating it. Smith rose to his feet and dusted his clothes roofily. For the first time he realized the horrors of war. His hat had gone forever. His trousers could never be the same again after their close acquaintance with the pavement. The rescue party was coming up at the gallop. The New York policeman may lack the quiet dignity of his London rival, but he is a hustler. What's doing? Nothing now, said the disgusted voice of Billy Windsor from the shadows. They've beaten it. The circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a general rendezvous. Three grey-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men with keen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolver in one hand, night-stick in the other. Smith, hapless and dusty, joined them. Billy Windsor and the kid, the latter bleeding freely from his left ear, the lobe of which had been chipped by a bullet, were the last to arrive. Who has been there a fouse? inquired one of the policemen, mildly interested. Do you know a sportsman by the name of Rapetto? inquired Smith. Jack Rapetto, sure. He belongs to the Three Points, said another intelligent officer, as one naming some fashionable club. When next you see him, said Smith, I should be obliged, if you would use your authority, to make him buy me a new hat. I could do with another pair of trousers, too, but I will not press the trousers. A new hat is, however, essential. Mine has a six-inch hole in it. Shot at you did they, said one of the policemen, as who should say dash the lads, they're always up to some of their larks. Shot at us, burst out the ruffled kid. What do you think's been happening? Think an aeroplane ran into my ear and took half of it off? Think that noise was somebody opening bottles of pop? Think those guys that sneaked off down the row was just training for a marathon? Comrade Brady, said Smith, touches the spot, he say, are you kid Brady? inquired one of the officers. For the first time, the constabulary had begun to display any real animation. Breckin' I'd seen you somewhere, said another. You lex cyclonell, all right, kid I hear. And who but a bonehead thought he wouldn't? demanded the third warmly. He could whip a dozen cyclonells in the same evening with his eyes shut. He's the next champion, admitted the first speaker. If he puts it over on Jimmy Garvin, argued the second. Jimmy Garvin cried the third. He can whip twenty Jimmy Garvin's with his feet tied, I tell you. I am loath, to interrupt this very impressive brain barbecue, but trivial as it may seem to you, to me there is a certain interest in this other little matter of my ruined hat. I know that it may strike you as hypersensitive of us to protest against being riddled with bullets, but… Well, what's been doin', inquired the force. It was a nuisance, this perpetual harping on trifles, when the deep question of the next lightweight championship of the world was under discussion. But the sooner it was attended to, the sooner it would be over. Billy Windsor undertook to explain. The three points laid for us, he said. Jack Rapetto was bossing the crowd. I don't know who the rest were. The kid wouldn't put one over on Jack Rapetto's chin, and we were asking him a few questions when the rest came back and started into shooting. Then we got to cover quick, and you came up and they beat it. That, said Smith nodding, is a very fair precy of the evening's events. We should like you, if you will be so good, to corral this comrade Rapetto and see that he buys me a new hat. We'll round Jack up, said one of the policemen indulgently. Do it nicely, heard Smith. Don't go hurting his feelings. The second policeman gave it as his opinion, that Jack was getting too gay. The third policeman conceded this. Jack, he said, had shown signs for some time past of asking for it in the neck. It was an error on Jack's part, he gave his hearers to understand, to assume that the lid was completely off the great city of New York. Two blamed freshies getting, the trio agreed. They could not have been more disapproving if they had been prefixed at Hallebury, and Mr. Rapetto a first-termer who had been detected in the act of wearing his cap on the back of his head. They seemed to think it was too bad of Jack. The wrath of the law, said Smith, is very terrible. We will leave the matter then in your hands. In the meantime, we should be glad if you would direct us to the nearest subway station. Just at the moment, the cheerful lights of the great wideway are what I seem to chiefly need. End of Chapter 16 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Boathouse. Chapter 17 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. Brea. Chapter 17 Gorilla Warfare. Thus ended the opening engagement of the campaign, seemingly in a victory for the cozy moment's army. Billy Windsor, however, shook his head. We got mighty little out of it, he said. The victory, said Smith, was not bloodless. Comrade Brady's ear, my hat, these are not slight casualties. On the other hand, surely we are one up? Surely we have gained ground? The elimination of Comrade Rapetto from the scheme of things is, in itself, something. I know few men who I would not rather meet on a lonely road than Comrade Rapetto. He is one of nature's sandbaggers. Probably the thing crept upon him slowly. He started, possibly, in a merely tentative way by slugging one of the family circle. His nurse, let us say, or his young brother. But once it started, he is unable to resist the craving. The thing grips him like graham drinking. He sandbags now not because he really wants to, but because he cannot help himself. To me there is something consoling in the thought that Comrade Rapetto will no longer be among those present. What makes you think that? I should imagine that a benevolent law will put him away in his little cell for at least a brief spell. Not on your life, said Billy. He'll prove an alibi. Smith's eyeglass dropped out of his eye. He replaced it and gazed, astonished at Billy. An alibi, when three keen-eyed men actually caught him at it. He can find thirty tufts to swear he was five miles away. And get the court to believe it, said Smith. Sure, said Billy disgustedly. You don't catch them hurting a gang's men, unless they're pushed against the wall. The politicians don't want the gangs in goal, especially as the alderanic elections will be on in a few weeks. Did you ever hear of Monk Eastman? I fancy not, Comrade Windsor. If I did, the name has escaped me. Who was this cleric? He was the first boss of the East Side Gang before Kid Twist took it on. Yes. He was arrested a dozens of times, but he always got off. Do you know what he said once when they pulled him for thugging a fellow out in New Jersey? I fear not, Comrade Windsor. Tell me all. He said, You're arresting me, huh? Say, you want to look where you're going. I cut some ice in this town. I made half the big politicians in New York. That's what he said. His smell talk, said Smith, seems to have been bright and well expressed. What happened then? Was he restored to his friends and his relations? Sure he was. What do you think? Well, Jack Rapetto isn't Monk Eastman, but he's in with Spider Riley and the Spiders in with the men behind. Jack'll get off. It looks to me, Comrade Windsor, said Smith thoughtfully, as if my stay in this great city were going to cost me a small fortune in hats. Billy's prophecy proved absolutely correct. The police were as good as their word. In due season, they rounded up the impulsive Mr. Rapetto, and he was hailed before a magistrate. And then, what a beautiful exhibition of brotherly love and all-langsine camaraderie was witnessed. One by one, smoking sheepishly, but giving out their evidence with unshaken earnestness, eleven greasy, wandering eyed youths mounted the witness stand and affirmed on oath that at the time mentioned, dear old Jack had been making merry in their company and a genial and law abiding fashion, many, many blocks below the scene of the regrettable assault. The magistrate discharged the prisoner, and the prisoner, meeting Billy and Smith in the street outside, leered triumphantly at them. Billy stepped up to him. You may have wriggled out of this, he said furiously, but if you don't get a move on and quit looking at me like that, I'll knock you over the singer building. Hump yourself. Mr. Rapetto humped himself. So the victory was turned into defeat, and Billy's jaw became squareer and his eye more full of the light of battle than ever. And there was need of a square jaw and a battle-lit eye, for now began a period of guerrilla warfare, such as no New York paper had ever had to fight against. It was Wheeler, the gaunt manager of the business side of the journal, who first brought it to the notice of the editorial staff. Wheeler was a man for whom in business hours nothing existed but his job, and his job was to look after the distribution of the paper. As to the contents of the paper, he was absolutely ignorant. He had been with cozy moments from its start, but he had never read a line of it. He handled it as if it were so much soap. The scholarly writings of Mr. Wilberfloss, the mirth-provoking sallies of Mr. B. Henderson Asher, the tender outpourings of Luella, Granville, Waterman, all of these things were outside his can. He was a distributor, and he distributed. A few days after the restoration of Mr. Rapetto to the East Side Society, Mr. Wheeler came into the editorial room with information and desire for information. He endeavored to satisfy the letter first. What's doing anyway? he asked. He then proceeded to his information. Someone's got it in against the paper, sure, he said. I don't know what it's all about. I ain't never read the thing. Don't see what anyone could have against a paper with a name like cozy moments anyway. The way things have been going the last few days seems it might be the organ of a blamed mining camp that the boys have taken a dislike to. What's been happening? asked Billy with gleaming eyes. Why, nothing in the world fuss about. Only our carriers can't go out without being beaten up by gangs of tufts. Pat Harrigan's in the hospital now. Just been looking in on him. Pat's a fellow who likes to fight. Rather fight he would than see a ball game. But this was too much for him. Know what happened? I see here just like this it was. Pat goes out with his cart. Passing through a low-down street on his way up town. He's held up by a gang of tufts. He shows fight. Half a dozen of them attend to him while the rest gets cleaned away with every copy of the paper there was in the cart. When the cop comes along there's patent pieces on the ground and nobody in sight but a dago chewing gum. Cop asks the dago what's been doing and the dago says he's only come around the corner enhancing nothing to anybody. What I want to know is what's it all about? Who's got it in for us and why? Mr. Wheeler leaned back in his chair while Billy his hair rumpled more than ever in his eyes glowing explained the situation. Mr. Wheeler listened absolutely unmoved and when the narrative had come to an end gave it as his opinion that the editorial staff had sand. That was his sole comment. It's up to you he said rising. You know your business say though someone had better get busy right quick and do something to stop these guys roughhousing like this. If we get a few more carriers beat up the way Pat was there'll be a strike. It's not as if they were all Irishmen. Most of them are daggers and such and they don't want any more fight than they can get by beating their wives and kicking kids off the sidewalk. I'll do my best to keep this paper distributed right and it's a shame if it ain't because it's going pretty big just now but it's up to you. Good day gents. He went out. Smith looked at Billy. As Comrade Wheeler remarks he said it is up to us. What do you propose to do about it? This is a move of the enemy which I had not anticipated. I had fancied that their operations would be confined exclusively to our two selves. If they are going to screw the street with our carriers we are somewhat in the soup. Billy said nothing. He was chewing the stem of an unlighted pipe. Smith went on. It means of course that we must buck up to a certain extent. If the campaign is to be a long one they have us where the hair is crisp. We cannot stand the strain. Cozy moments cannot be muzzled but it can undoubtedly be choked. What we want to do is find out the name of the man behind the tenements as soon as ever we can and publish it and then, if we perish, fall yelling the name. Billy admitted the soundness of the scheme but wished to know how it was to be done. Comrade Windsor, said Smith, I have been thinking this thing over and it seems to me that we are on the wrong track or rather that we aren't on any track at all. We are simply marking time. What we want to do is go out and hustle round till we stir up something. Our line up to the present has been to sit at home and scream vigorously in the hope of some stout fellow hearing and rushing to help. In other words, we have been saying in the paper when in outsides and scoogs the merchant must be who owns those tenements in the hope that somebody else will agree with us and be sufficiently interested to get to work and find out who the blighter is. That's all wrong. What we must do now, Comrade Windsor, is to put on our hats. Such hats as Comrade Rapetto has left us and selly forth his sleuthhounds on our own account. Yes, but how, demeted Billy? That's all right in theory, but how's it going to work in practice? The only thing that can corner the man is a commission. Far from it, Comrade Windsor, the job may be worked more simply. I don't know how often the rents are collected in these places, but I should say that an adventure was a week. My idea is to hang negligently round till the rent collector arrives and when he has looned up on the horizon buttonhole him and ask him quite politely, as man demand, whether he is collecting those rents for himself or for somebody else. And if somebody else, who that somebody else is. Simple, I fancy, yet brainy. Do you take me, Comrade Windsor? Billy set up, excited. I believe you hid it. Smith shot his cuffs, modestly. End of Chapter 17 of Smith Journalist. By P. G. Wodehouse. Chapter 18 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 Psuke Borea. Chapter 18, an episode by the way. It was Pugsy Maloney who, on the following morning, brought to the office the gist of what is related in this chapter. Pugsy's version was, however, brief and unadorned as was the way with his narratives. Such things as first causes and pecan details he avoided, as tending to prolong the telling excessively, thus keeping him from perusal of his cowboy stories. The way Pugsy put it was as follows. He gave the thing out merely as an item of general interest, a bubble on the surface of the life of a great city. He did not know how nearly interested were his employers in any matter touching that gang, which is known as the Three Points. Pugsy said, There's trouble down where I live, Dood Dawson's mad at Spider Riley, and now the table-hears are laying for the Three Points, sure. He had then retired to his outer fastness, yielding for their details jerkily and with the distraight air of one whose mind is elsewhere. Skillfully extracted and pieced together, these details form themselves into the following typical narrative of the East Side Life in New York. The really important gangs of New York are four. There are other less important institutions, but these are little more than mere friendly gatherings of old boyhood chums for purposes of mutual companionship. In time they may grow, as did Bat Jarvis's Coucherie, into formidable organizations, for the soil is undoubtedly propitious to such growth. But at present the amount of ice which good judges declare them to cut is but small. They stick up an occasional wayfarer for his cush, and they carry canisters and sometimes fire them off, but these things do not signify the cutting of ice. In matters political there are only four gangs which count. The East Side, the Groom Street, the Three Points, and the Table Hill. Greatest of these, by virtue of their numbers, are the East Side and the Groom Street. The latter presided over at the time of this story by Mr. Bat Jarvis. These two are colossal, and though they may fight each other, are immune from attack at the hands of lesser gangs. But between the other gangs, and especially between the Table Hill and the Three Points, which are much of a size, warfare rages as briskly as among the republics of South America. There has always been bad blood between the Table Hill and the Three Points, and until they wipe each other out after the manner of the kill-kitty cats, it is probable that there always will be. Little events, trifling in themselves, have always occurred to shatter friendly relations just when there seemed to be a chance of their being formed. Thus, just as the Table Hillites were beginning to forgive the Three Points for shooting the redoubtable Paul Horgan down in Coding Island, a three-pointer, injudiciously, wiped out another of the rival gang near Canal Street. He pleaded self-defense, and in any case it was probably mere thoughtlessness. But nevertheless, the Table Hillites were ruffled. That had been a month or so back. During that month, things had been simmering down, and peace was just preparing to brood when they recurred the incident to which Pugsie had eluded, the regrettable falling out of Dude Dawson and Spider Riley at Mr. McGinnis' dancing saloon Shamrock Hall, the same which Bet Jarvis had been called in to protect in the days before the Groom Street gang began to be. Shamrock Hall, being under the eyes of the Great Bat, was of course forbidden ground, and it was with no intention of spoiling the harmony of the evening that Mr. Dawson had looked in. He was there at a purely private and peaceful character. As he sat, smoking, sipping, and observing the revels, there settled at the next table Mr. Robert Nigger Costin, an eminent member of the Three Points. There being temporary peace between the two gangs, the Great Man exchanged a not unfriendly nod, and, after a short pause, a word or two. Mr. Costin, alluding to an Italian who had just pirouetted past, remarked that there sure was some class to the way that wop headed up. Mr. Dawson said, yep, there sure was. You would have said that all of nature smiled. Alas! The next moment the sky was covered with black clouds and the storm broke. For Mr. Dawson, continuing in this vein of criticism, rather injudiciously gave it as his opinion that one of the Lady Dancers had two left feet. For a moment Mr. Costin did not see which Lady was alluded to. The Goyle and the Pink Scoit, said Mr. Dawson, facilitating the other search by pointing with a much chewed cigarette. It was at this moment that nature's smile was shut off as if by a tap. For the Lady in the Pink Scoit had been in receipt of Mr. Costin's respectful devotion for the past eight days. From this point onwards the march of events was rapid. Mr. Costin, rising, asked Mr. Dawson who he thought he, Mr. Dawson, was. Mr. Dawson, extinguishing his cigarette and placing it behind his ear, replied that he was the fellow who could bite his, Mr. Costin's, head off. Mr. Costin said, huh? Mr. Dawson said, sure. Mr. Costin called Mr. Dawson a pie-faced rubber-necked foreflusher. Mr. Dawson called Mr. Costin a coon, and that was where the trouble really started. It was secretly a great grief to Mr. Costin that his skin was of so swarthy a hue. To be permitted to address Mr. Costin face to face by his nickname was a sign of the closest friendship to which only Spider Riley, Jack Rapeto, and one or two more of the gang could aspire. Others spoke of him as nigger, or more briefly, nigg, strictly behind his back. For Mr. Costin had a wide reputation as a fighter, and his particular mode of battling was to descend on his antagonist and bite him. Into this action he flung himself with the passionate abandonment of the artist. When he bit, he bit. He did not, nibble. If a friend had called Mr. Costin nigg, he would have been running grave risks. A stranger and a leader of a rival gang who addressed him as coon was more than asking for trouble. He was pleading for it. Great men seldom waste time. Mr. Costin, flinging towards Mr. Dawson, promptly bit him on the cheek. Mr. Dawson bounded from his seat. Such was the excitement of the moment that, instead of drawing his canister, he forgot that he had one on his person, and seizing a mug which had held beer, bounced it vigorously on Mr. Costin's skull, which, being of solid wood, merely gave out a resonant note and remained unbroken. So far the honors were comparatively even, with perhaps a slight balance in favor of Mr. Costin, but now occurred an incident which turned the scale and made war between the gangs inevitable. In the far corner of the room, surrounded by a crowd of admiring friends, sat Spider Riley, monarch of the three points. He had noticed that there was a slight disturbance at the other side of the hall, but had given it little attention till, the dancing ceasing suddenly and the floor emptying itself of its crowd, he had a plain view of Mr. Dawson and Mr. Costin squaring up at each other for the second round. We must assume that Mr. Riley was not thinking what he did, for his action was contrary to all rules of gang etiquette. In the street it would have been perfectly legitimate, even praiseworthy, but in a dance hall belonging to a neutral power it was unpardonable. What he did was to produce his canister and pick off the unsuspecting Mr. Dawson, just as that exquisite was preparing to get in some more good work with the beer mug. The leader of the table hillites fell with a crash, shot through the leg, and Spider Riley, together with Mr. Costin and others of the three points, sped through the door for safety. Fearing the wrath of Bat Jervis, who it was known would count into no such episodes at the dance hall which he had undertaken to protect. Mr. Dawson, meanwhile, was attended to and helped home. Willing informants gave him the name of his aggressor, and before morning the table hill camp was in ferment. Shooting broke out in three places, though there were no casualties. When the day dawned there existed between the two gangs a state of warfare more better than any in their record. For this time it was no question of obscuring on entities. Chieftain had assaulted Chieftain. Royal blood had been spilt. A comrade Windsor, said Smith, when Master Maloney had spoken his last word, we must take careful note of this little matter. I rather fancy that sooner or later we may be able to turn it to our profit. I am sorry for Dawson anyhow. Though I have never met him, I have a sort of instinctive respect for him. A man such as he would feel a bullet through his trouser leg more than one of the common clay who cared little how his clothes looked. End of Chapter 18 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Boathouse. Chapter 19 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 19 in Pleasant Street Careful inquiries conducted incognito by Master Maloney among the denizens of Pleasant Street brought the information that rents in the tenements were collected not weekly, but monthly, a fact which must undoubtedly cause a troublesome hitch in the campaign. Rent Day, announced Pugsy, fell on the last day of the month. I rubbed it around, he said, and did his sleutat, and I find things out. There's a feller comes round about supper time that day, and then is up to the family what lives in the tenements to dig down in their jeans for the stuff, or out they goes at same night. Evidently a hustler, our nameless friend, said Smith. I got that from a kid what knows another kid that lives there, explained Master Maloney. Say, he proceeded confidentially, that kid's in bad shape, sure he is. That second kid, the one that lives there, he's a WAP kid in. A what, comrade Maloney? A WAP, a dego. Why, don't you get next? Why, an Italian, sure, that's right. Well, this kid, he sure is to the back because his father came from Italy to work on the subway. I don't see why that puts him in bad, said Billy Winter, wonderingly. Nor I, agreed Smith. Your narratives, comrade Maloney, always seem to me to suffer from a certain lack of construction. You start at the end, and then you go back to any portion of the story which happens to appeal to you at that moment, eventually winding up at the beginning. Why should the fact that this stippling father has come over from Italy to work on the subway be a misfortune? Why, sure, because he got fired and went and sweated a form in one under Coco and a magistrate, he gives him twenty days. And then, comrade Maloney, this thing is beginning to get clear. You are like Sherlock Holmes. After you have explained a thing from start to finish, or as you prefer to do from finish to start, it becomes quite simple. Why, then, this kid's in bad for fair, because there ain't nobody to puggle the bones. Puggle the what, comrade Maloney? The bones, the stuff, that's right, the dollars. He's all alone, this kid. So when the rent guy blows in, who's just slipping over to simoleons? It'll be outside for his quick. Billy warmed up at this tale of distress in his usual way. Somebody ought to do something. It's a vile shame the kid being turned out like that. We will see to it, comrade Windsor. Cozy moments shall step in. We will combine business with pleasure, paying the stippling's rent and corralling the rent collector at the same time. What is today? How long before the end of the month? Another week. A moraine on it, comrade Windsor. Two moraines. This delay may undo us. But the days went by without any further movement on the part of the enemy. A strange quiet seemed to be brooding over the other camp. As a matter of fact, the sudden outbreak of active hostilities with a table hill contingent had had the effect of taking the minds of Spider Riley and his warriors off Cozy Moments and its affairs, much as the unexpected appearance of a mad bull would make a man forget that he had come out butterfly hunting. Smith and Billy could wait. They were not likely to take the offensive. But the table hillites demanded instant attention. War had broken out, as was usual between the gangs, in a somewhat tentative fashion at first sight. There had been sniping and skirmishes by the wayside, but as yet no pitched battle. The two armies were sparring for an opening. The end of the week arrived, and Smith and Billy, conducted by Master Maloney, made their way to Pleasant Street. To get there, it was necessary to pass through a section of the enemy's country, but the perilous passage was safely negotiated. The expedition reached its unsavory goal intact. The WAP kid, whose name it appeared, was Giuseppe Orloni, inhabited a small room at the very top of the building next to the one Smith and Mike had visited on their first appearance in Pleasant Street. He was out when the party, led by Pugsy, up dark stairs arrived, and on returning seemed both surprise and alarm to see visitors. Pugsy undertook to do the honors. Pugsy's interpreter was energetic, but not wholly successful. He appeared to have a fixed idea that the Italian language was one easily mastered by the simple method of saying da instead of the, and tacking on a final a to any word that seemed to him to need one. Say kid, he began, has da rent a man comea yet da? The black eyes of the WAP kid clouded. He gesticulated and said something in his native language. He hasn't got next, reported Master Maloney. He can't get on to do incurs. These WAP kids is all bonehead. Say kid, looka here. He walked out of the room and closed the door. Then, wrapping on it smartly from the outside, re-entered and assuming a look of extreme ferocity, stretched out his hand and thundered, unbuilt the, sippin me da stuff. The WAP kid's puzzlement became pathetic. This, said Smith, deeply interested, is getting about as tense as anything I ever struck. Don't give in, Comrade Maloney. Who knows but that you may yet win through. I fancy the trouble is that your too perfect Italian accent is making the youth homesick. Once more to the breach, Comrade Maloney. Master Maloney made a gesture of disgust. I'm true. These dagos makes me tired. They don't know enough to go upstairs to take the elevated. Bid it, you mutt. He observed with moody displeasure to the WAP kid, accompanying the words with a gesture which conveyed its own meaning. The WAP kid, plainly glad to get away, slipped out of the door like a shadow. Pugsie shrugged his shoulders. Gents, he said residedly. It's up to yous. I fancy, said Smith. That this is one of those moments when it is necessary for me to unlimber my Sherlock Holmes system. As thus, if the Brent Collector had been here, it is certain, I think, that Comrade Spaghetti, or whatever you said his name was, wouldn't have been. That is to say, if the Brent Collector had called and found no money waiting for him, surely Comrade Spaghetti would have been out in the cold night, instead of under his own roof tree. Do you follow me, Comrade Maloney? That's right, said Billy Windsor, of course. Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary, murmured Smith. So all we have to do is sit here and wait. All, said Smith sadly, surely it is enough. For of all the scaly localities I have struck, this seems to me the scaliest. The architect of this stately home of America seems to have had a positive hatred for windows. His idea of ventilation was to leave a hole in the wall about the size of a lima bean and let the thing go with that. If our friend does not arrive shortly, I shall pull down the roof tree. Why? Gadzooks. Not to mention, snap my vitals. Isn't that a trap door up there? Make a long arm, Comrade Windsor. Billy got on a chair and pulled the bolt. The trap door opened downwards. It fell, disclosing a square of deep blue sky. Come, he said, fancy living in this atmosphere when you don't have to. Fancy these fellows keeping that shut up all the time. I expect it is an acquired taste, said Smith, like glimburger cheese. They don't begin to appreciate air till it is thick enough to scoop chunks out of with a spoon. Then they get up on their hind legs and inflate their chest and say, this is fine. This beats Ozone Hollow. Leave it open, Comrade Windsor. And now, as to the problem of dispensing with Comrade Maloney's services. Sure, said Billy. Beat it, Pugsie, my lad. Pugsie looked up indignant. Beat it, he inquired. While your shoe leather is good, said Billy, this is no place for a minister, son. There may be a rough house in any minute, and you would be in the way. I want to stop and pipe to fun, objected Master Maloney. Never mind, cut off. We'll tell you all about it tomorrow. Master Maloney prepared reluctantly to depart. As he did so, there was a sound of a well-shot foot on the stairs and a man in a snuff-colored suit wearing a brown Humbark hat and carrying a small notebook in one hand walked briskly into the room. It was not necessary for Smith to get his Sherlock Holmes system to work. His whole appearance proclaimed the newcomer to be the long-expected collector of rents. CHAPTER XX. He stood in the doorway looking with some surprise at the group inside. He was a smallish, pale-faced man with protruding eyes and teeth, which gave him a certain resemblance to a rabbit. Hello, he said. Welcome to New York, said Smith. Master Maloney, who had taken advantage of the interruption, to edge farther into the room, now appeared to consider the question of his departure permanently shelved. He sidled to a corner and sat down on an empty soapbox with the air of a dramatic critic at the opening of a new play. The scene looked good to him. It promised interesting developments. Master Maloney was an earnest student of the drama as exhibited in the theatres of the East Side, and few had ever applauded the hero of escaped from sing-sing or hissed the villain of Nellie the Beautiful Cloak model with more fervor than he. He liked his drama to have plenty of action, and to his practice eye this one promised well. Smithy looked upon as a quite amiable lunatic, from whom little was to be expected, but there was a set expression on Billy Windsor's face which suggested great things. His pleasure was abruptly quenched. Billy Windsor, placing a firm hand on his collar, led him to the door and pushed him out, closing the door behind him. The rent collector watched these things with a puzzled eye. He now turned to Smith. Say, seeing anything of the whops that live here, he inquired. I am addressing, said Smith courteously, my name is Gooch, Smith bowed. Touching these whops, comrade Gooch, he said, I fear there is little chance of your seeing them tonight unless you wait some considerable time. With one of them, the son and heir of the family, I should say, we have just been having a highly interesting and informative chat. Comrade Belloni, who has just left us, acted as interpreter. The father, I am told, is in the dungeon below the castle moat for a brief spell for punching his foreman in the eye. The result? The rent is not forthcoming. Then it's outside for theirs, said Mr. Gooch, definitely. It's a big shame, broken Billy, turning the kid out. Where is he to go? That's up to him, nothing to do with me. I'm only acting under orders from up top. Whose orders? Comrade Gooch, inquired Smith. The gents who owns this joint. Who is he? said Billy. Suspicion crept into the protruding eyes of the rent collector. He waxed Roth. Say, he demanded. Who are you two guys anyway, and what do you think you're doing here? That's what I'd like to know. What do you want with the name of the owner of this place? What business is it of yours? The fact is, Comrade Gooch, we are newspaper men. I guess you were, said Mr. Gooch, with a triumph. You can't bluff me. Well, it's no good, boys. I have nothing for you. You'd better chase off and try something else. He became more friendly. Say, though, he said, I just guessed you were for some paper. I wish I could give you a story, but I can't. I guess it's this cozy moments business that's been and put your editor on to this joint, ain't it? Say, though, that's a queer thing, that paper. Why, only a few weeks ago it used to be a sort of take home and read to the kids' affair. A friend of mine used to buy a regular, and then suddenly it comes out with a regular whoop and started knocking these tenements and boosting Kid Brady and all that. I can't understand it. All I know is it's begun to get this place talked about. Why, you see for yourselves how it is. Here is your editor sitting you down to get a story about it. But say, those cozy moments guys are taking big risks. I tell you street they are, and that goes. I happen to know a thing or two about what's going on on the other side, and I tell you there's going to be something doing if they don't cut it out quick. Mr... he stopped and chuckled. Mr. Jones, isn't the man to sit still and smile? He's going to get busy. Say, what papers do you boys come from? Cozy moments, Comrade Gooch. Smith replied, immediately behind you, between you and the door, is Comrade Windsor our editor. I am Smith. I sub-edit. For a moment the inwardness of the information did not seem to come home to Mr. Gooch. Then it hit him. He spun round. Billy Windsor was standing with his back against the door at a more than nasty look on his face. What's all this? demanded Mr. Gooch. I will explain all, said Smith, soothingly. In the first place, however, this matter of Comrade Spaghetti spent. Sooner than to see that friend of my boyhood slung out to do the wandering child in the snow act, I will brass up for him. Confound his rent. Let me out. Business before pleasure. How much is it? Twelve dollars, for the privilege of suffocating in this compact little black hole. By my hallowedom, Comrade Gooch, that gentleman whose name you are so shortly to tell us has a very fair idea of how to charge. But who am I that I should criticize? Here are the simoleons, as our young friend Comrade Maloney would call them. Push me over a receipt. Let me out. Anon. Gossip. Anon. Shakespeare. First, the receipt. Mr. Gooch scribbled a few words in his notebook and tore the page. Smith thanked him. I will see to it that it reaches Comrade Spaghetti, he said. And now, to a more important matter, don't put away that notebook, turn to a clean page, moisten your pencil, and write as follows. Are you ready? By the way, what is your Christian name? Gooch. Gooch. This is no way to speak. Well, if you are sensitive on the point, we will wave the Christian name. It is my duty to tell you, however, that I suspect it to be Percy. Let us push on. Are you ready, once more, pencil moistened? Very well, then. I, comma, being of sound mind and body, comma, and a bright little chap altogether, comma, why you're not writing. Let me out, billowed Mr. Gooch. I'll summon you for assault and battery playing a fool game like this. Get away from that door! There has been no assault and battery yet, Comrade Gooch, about who shall predict how long so happy a state of affairs will last. Do not be deceived by our gay and smiling faces, Comrade Gooch. We mean business. Let me put the whole proposition of affairs before you, and I am sure a man of your perception will see that there is only one thing to be done. He dusted the only chair in the room with infinite care, and sat down. Billy, who had not spoken a word or moved an inch since the beginning of the interview, continued to stand and be silent. Mr. Gooch shuffled restlessly in the middle of the room. As you justly observed a moment ago, said Smith, the staff of Cozy Moments is taking big risks. We do not rely on your unsupported word for that. We had a practical demonstration of the fact from one Jay Rapetto, who tried some few nights ago to put us out of business. Well, it struck us both that we had better get a hold of the name of the blighter who runs these tenements as quickly as possible before Comrade Rapetto's next night out. That is what we should like you to give us, Comrade Gooch, and we should like it in writing. And on second thoughts, in ink. I have one of those patent non-leakable fountain pens in my pocket. The old journalist's best friend. Most of the ink has come out and is permeating the lining of my coat, but I think there is still sufficient for our needs. Remind me later, Comrade Gooch, to continue on the subject of fountain pens. I have much to say on the theme. Meanwhile, however, business, business, that is the cry. He produced a pen and an old letter, the last page of which was blank, and began to write. How does this strike you? he said. I, I have left a blank for the Christian name. You can write it in yourself later. I, blank Gooch, being a collector of rents in Pleasant Street, New York, do hereby swear. Hush, Comrade Gooch, there is no need to do it yet. But the name of the owner of the Pleasant Street tenements, who is responsible for the perfectly foul conditions there is, and that is where you come in, Comrade Gooch. That is where we need your specialized knowledge. Who is he? Billy Windsor reached out and grabbed the rent collector by the collar. Having done this, he proceeded to shake him. Billy was muscular, and his heart was so much in the business that Mr. Gooch behaved as if he had been caught in a high wind. It is probable that at another moment the desired information might have been shaken out of him, but before this could happen, there was a banging at the door, followed by the entrance of Master Maloney. For the first time since Smith had known him, Pugsie was openly excited. Say, he began, use it better be the quick you had, there's coming! And now go back to the beginning, Comrade Maloney, said Smith patiently, which in the exuberance of the moment you have skipped. Who are coming? Why, damn, decoys! Smith shook his head. Your habit of omitting Essentials, Comrade Maloney, is going to undo you one of these days. When you get to that branch of yours, you will probably sort out to Gallup after the cattle without remembering to mount your Mustang. There are four million guys in New York. Which section is it that is coming? Gum, I don't know how many of them is of them. I've seen Spider Riley and Jack Rapetto and… Say no more, said Smith. If Comrade Rapetto is there, that is enough for me. I am going to get onto the roof and pull it up after me. Billy released Mr. Gooch, who fell, puffing onto the low bed, which stood in one corner of the room. They must have spotted us as we were coming here, he said, and followed us. Where did you see them, Pugsie? On the street just outside, there was a bunch of them talking together, and I hear them say you was in here. One of them seen you come in, and there ain't no way out but the front, so they ain't hurrying. They just reckoned a pike along upstairs, looking to each room till they find you. And there's a bunch of them going to wait on the street, in case you beat it past down the stairs while the other guys is rumble infuse. Say, gents, it's pretty fierce this proposition. What are you going to do? Mr. Gooch, from the bed, lapped unpleasantly. I guess you ain't the only assault and battery artist in the business. Looks to me as if someone else was going to get shaken up some. Billy looked at Smith. Well, he said, what shall we do? Go down and try and rush through? Smith shook his head. Not so, Comrade Windsor, but about as much otherwise as you can jolly well imagine. Well, what then? We will stay here, or rather, we will hop nimbly onto the roof through that skylight. Once there, we may engage these verletons fairly equal terms. They could only get through one at a time. And while they were doing it, I will give my celebrated imitation of Horatius. We had better be moving. Our luggage, fortunately, is small, merely Comrade Gooch. If you will get through the skylight, I will pass him up to you. Mr. Gooch, with much verbal embroidery, stated that he would not go. Smith acted promptly, gripping the struggling rent collector round the waist, and ignoring his frantic kicks as mere errors in taste, he lifted him to the trapdoor, once the head, shoulders, and arms of Billy Windsor protruded into the room. Billy collected the collector, and then Smith turned to Pugsy. Comrade Maloney. Huh? Have I your ear? Huh? Are you listening till you feel that your ears are the size of footballs? Then drink this in. For weeks you have been praying for a chance to show your devotion to the great cause. Or, if you haven't, you ought to have been. That chance has come. You alone can save us. In a sense, of course, we do not need to be saved. They will find it hard to get at us, I fancy on the roof, but it ill befits the dignity of the editorial staff of a great New York weekly, to roost like pigeons for any length of time. And consequently, it is up to you. Shall I go for the cops, Mr. Smith? No, Comrade Maloney, I thank you. I have seen the cops in action, and they did not impress me. We do not want allies who will merely shake their heads at Comrade Rapato and the others, however sternly. We want someone who will swoop down upon these merry roasters, and, as it were, soak to them good. Do you know where Dude Dawson lives? The light of intelligence began to shine in Mr. Maloney's face. His eye glistened with respectful approval. This was strategy of the right sort. Dude Dawson? Nope, but I can ask around. Do so, Comrade Maloney, and when found, tell him that his old college chum, Spider Riley, is here. He will not be able to come himself, I fear, but he can send representatives. Sure. That's all, then. Go downstairs with a gay and jaunty air, as if you had no connection with the old firm at all. Whistle a few lively bars. Make careless gestures. Thus shall you win through. And now it would be no bad idea, I fancy, for me to join the rest of the brains of the paper up aloft. Off you go, Comrade Maloney, and in passing, don't take a week about it. Like it with all the speed you possess. Pugs he vanished, and Smith closed the door behind him. An inspection revealed that it possessed no lock. As a barrier, it was useless. He left it ajar, and, jumping up, gripped the edge of the opening of the roof, and pulled himself through. Billy Windsor was seated comfortably on Mr. Gooch's chest a few feet away. By his side was his big stick. Smith possessed himself of this, and looked about him. The examination was satisfactory. The chapter appeared to be the only means of access to the roof, and between their roof and that of the next house, there was a broad gulf. Practically impregnable, he murmured. Only one thing conditioned Comrade Windsor, and that is if they have the sense to get on to the roof next door and start shooting. Even in that case, however, we have cover in the shape of the chimneys. I think we may fairly say that all is well. How are you getting along? Has the patient responded at all? Not yet, said Billy, but he is going to. He will be in your charge. I must devote myself exclusively to guarding the bridge. It is a pity that the trapdoor has not got a bolt this side, if it had, the thing would be a perfect picnic. As it is, we must leave it open, but we must not expect everything. Billy was about to speak, but Smith suddenly held up his hand, warningly. From the room below came the sound of feet. For a moment the silence was tense. Then, from Mr. Gooch's lips, there escaped a screech. This way! There a— The words were cut short as Billy banged his hand over the speaker's mouth, but the thing was done. On top of the roof, cried a voice, Dave Baynett for the roof! The chair rest over the floor, feet shuffled, and then, like a jack-in-the-box, there popped through the opening ahead and shoulders. End of Chapter 20 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Boathouse Chapter 21 The Battle of Pleasant Street The new arrival was a young man with a shock of red hair, an ingrowing Roman nose, and a mouth from which force, or the passage of time, had removed three front teeth. He held on to the edges of the trap with his hands, and stared in a glassy manner into Smith's face, which was within a foot of his own. There was a momentary pause, broken by an oath from Mr. Gooch, who was still undergoing treatment in the background. A-ha! said Smith genially. Historic picture, Dr. Cook discovers the North Pole. The red-headed young man blinked. The strong light of the open air was trying to his eyes. You should better come down, he observed coley. We've got you. And, continued Smith, unmoved, is instantly handed a gum drop by his faithful Eskimo. As he spoke, he brought the stick down on the knuckles, which had disfigured the edges of the trap. The intruder uttered a howl and dropped out of sight. In the room below, there were whisperings and mutterings growing gradually louder till something resembling coherent conversation came to Smith's ears, as he knelt by the trap, making meditative billiard shots with the stick at a small pebble. Aguant, don't be a quitter! Who's a quitter? Use is a quitter! Get on top of the roof, he can't wait use! The guy's gotten a big stick! Smith nodded appreciatively. I and Roosevelt, he murmured. A somewhat baffled silence on the part of the attacking force, was followed by further conversation. Come on, some guy's got to go up! Members of assent from the audience. A voice in inspired tones. Let's see him do it! This suggestion made a hit. There was no doubt about that. It was a success from the start. Quite a little chorus of voices expressed a sincere approval of the very happy solution to what had seemed an insoluble problem. Smith, listening from above, failed to detect in the choir of glad voices one that might belong to Sam himself. Probably gratification had rendered the chosen one dumb. Yeah, let's see him do it! cried the unseen chorus. The first speaker, unnecessarily perhaps for the motion, had been carried almost unanimously. But possibly with the idea of convincing the one member of the party in whose bosom doubts might conceivably be harbored, went on to adduce reasons. Sam being a coon, he argued, ain't going to be hoit by no stick. Yous can't hoit a coon by soaking them onto cocoa, can ya, Sam? Smith waited with some interest for the reply, but it did not come. Possibly Sam did not wish to generalize on insufficient experience. Salvatore Ambulando said Smith softly, turning the stick around in his fingers. Comrade Windsor? Hello? Is it possible to hurt a colored gentleman by hitting him on the head with a stick? If he hit him hard enough. I knew there was some way out of the difficulty, said Smith, with satisfaction. How are you getting on up at your end of the table, comrade Windsor? Fine. Any result yet? Not at present. Don't give up. Not me. The right spirit, comrade Wind, a report like a cannon in the room below interrupted him. It was merely a revolver shot, but in the confined space it was deafening, the bullet saying up into the sky. Never hit me, said Smith, with dignified triumph. The noise was succeeded by a shuffling of feet. Smith grasped his stick more firmly. This was evidently the real attack. The revolver shot had been a mere demonstration of artillery to cover the infantry's advance. Sure enough, the next moment a woolly head popped through the opening, and a pair of rolling eyes gleamed up at the old Atonian. Why, Sam, said Smith cordially, this is well met. I remember you. Yes indeed I do. Wasn't you the fellow with the open umbrella that I met one rainy morning on the avenue? What? Are you coming up? Sam, I hate to do it, but a yell rang out. What was that, as Billy Windsor over his shoulder? Your statement, comrade Windsor, has been tested and proved correct. By this time the affair had begun to draw a gate. The noise of the revolver had proved a fine advertisement. The roof of the house next door began to fill up. Only a few of the arguments could get a clear view of the proceedings for a large chimney-stack intervened. There was considerable speculation as to what was passing between Billy Windsor and Mr. Gooch. Smith's share in the entertainment was more obvious. The only comers had seen his interview with Sam and were relating it with gusto to their friends. Their attitude towards Smith was that of a group of men watching a terrier at a rat-hole. They looked to him to provide entertainment for them, but they realized that the first move must be with the attackers. They were fair-minded men, and they did not expect Smith to make any aggressive move. Their indignation, when the proceedings began to grow slow, was directed entirely at the dilatory three-pointers. With an aggrieved air akin to that of a crowded, a cricket match when the batsmen are playing for a draw, they began to barric. They hooted the three-pointers. They begged them to go home and tuck themselves up into bed. The men on the roof were mostly Irishmen, and it offended them to see what should have been a spirited fight so grossly bungled. Go on away home, you quitters, broad one. Call yourselves the three-pointers, do ye, and you know what I would call ye, the young lady's seminary, bellowed another with withering scorn. A third member of the audience alluded to them as stiffs. I fear, Comrade Windsor, said Smith, that our blithe friends below are beginning to grow a little unpopular with the many-headed. They must be up and doing if they wish to retain the esteem of Pleasant Street. Aha! Another and longer explosion from below, and more billets wasted themselves on air. Smith sighed. They make me tired, he said. This is no time for a foudre-joie. Action, that is the cry. Action! Get busy, you blighters. The Irish neighbors expressed the same sentiment in different and more forcible words. There was no doubt about it. As warriors, the three-pointers had failed to give satisfaction. A voice from the room called up to Smith. Say, You have our ear, said Smith. What's that? I said you had our ear. Are you stiffs coming down off of that roof? Would you mind repeating that remark? Are you guys going to quit off of that roof? Your grammar is perfectly beastly, said Smith, severely. Hey. Well? Are you guys— No, my lad, said Smith. Since you ask, we are not. And why? Because the air up here is refreshing, the view pleasant, and we are expecting at any moment an important communication from Comrade Gouch. We're going to wait down here till you come down. If you wish it, said Smith courteously, by all means do. Who am I that I should dictate your movements? The most I aspire to is to check them when they take an upward direction. There was silence below. The time began to pass slowly. The Irishmen on the other roof now definitely abandoning hope of further entertainment proceeded with hoots of scorn to climb down one by one into the recesses of their own house. Suddenly from the street far below there came a fuselot of shots and a babble of shouts and counter-shouts. The roof of the house next door, which had been emptying itself slowly and reluctantly, filled again with a magical swiftness, and the low wall facing into the street became black with the backs of those graining over. What's that? inquired Billy. I rather fancy, said Smith, that our allies at the Table Hill Contingent must have arrived. I sent Comrade Maloney to explain matters to do, Dawson, and it seems as if that golden-hearted sportsman had responded. There appear to be great doings in the street. In the room below confusion had arisen. A scout, clattering upstairs, had brought the news to the Table Hill's advent, and there was doubt as to the proper course to pursue. Certain voices urged going down to help the main body. Others pointed out that that would mean abandoning the Siege of the Roof. The scout who had brought the news was eloquent in favour of the first course. GUM, he cried. Don't I keep telling news that the Table Hill's is here? Sure, there's a whole bunch of them, and unless use come down, they'll bite the whole head of us lot. Leave those discs on the roof. Let's stand right here with this canister, and then they can't get down, because Sam will pump them full of lead while they're beating it true to trap door. Sure. Smith nodded reflectively. There is a certain something in what the bright boy says. He murmured, It seems to me the grand rescue seen in the third act has sprung a leak. This will want thinking over. In the street the disturbance had now become terrific. Both sides were hard at it, and the Irishmen on the roof rewarded it last for their long vigil, re-yelling encouragement promiscuously, and whooping with the unfettered ecstasy of men who were getting the treat of their lives without having paid a penny for it. The behaviour of the New York policeman in affairs of this kind is based on principles of the soundest practical wisdom. The unthinking man would rush in and attempt to crush the combat in its earliest and fiercest stages. The New York policeman, knowing the importance of his own safety and the insignificance of the gangsmans, permits the opposing forces to hammer each other into a certain distaste for battle, and then, when both sides have begun to have enough of it, rushes in himself and clubs everything in sight. It is an admirable process in its results, but it is sure rather than swift. Proceedings in the affair below had not yet reached the police interference stage. The noise, what with the shouts and yells from the street and the ear-piercing approval of the roof audience, was just working up to a climax. Smith rose. He was tired of kneeling by the trap, and there was no likelihood of Sam making another attempt to climb through. He walked towards Billy. As he did so, Billy got up and turned to him. His eyes were gleaming with excitement. His whole attitude was triumphant. In his hand he waved a strip of paper. I've got it, he cried. Excellent comrade Windsor, said Smith, surely me west wind through now. All we have to do is get off of this roof and fate cannot touch us. Our two mammoth minds such as ours unequal to such a feat, it can hardly be. Let us ponder. Why not go down through the trap? They've all gone to the street. Smith shook his head. All, he replied, save Sam. Sam was the subject of my late successful experiment when I proved that colored gentleman's heads could be hurt with a stick. He is now waiting below, armed with a pistol ready, even anxious, to pick us off as we climb through the trap. How would it be to drop comrade Guj through first and so draw his fire? A comrade Guj I am sure would be delighted to do a little thing like that for old friends of our standing or… about what's that? What's the matter? Is that a ladder I see before me? It's handled to my hand. It IS comrade Windsor we win through. Cozy moments editorial staff may be treed, but it cannot be put out of business. Comrade Windsor, take the other end of that ladder and follow me. The ladder was lying against the further wall. It was long, more than long enough for the purpose for which it was needed. Smith and Billy rested it on the coping and pushed it till the other end breached across the gulf to the roof of the house next door. Mr. Guj eyeing him in silence the while. Smith turned to him. Comrade Guj, he said, do nothing to apprise our friend Sam of these proceedings. I speak in your best interests. Sam is in no mood to make nice distinction between friend and foe. If you bring him up here he will probably mistake you for a member of the staff of Cozy Moments and loose off in your direction without waiting for explanations. I think you had better come with us. I will go first, comrade Windsor, so if the ladder breaks the paper will lose merely a sub-editor, not an editor. He went down on all fours, and in this attitude wormed his way across to the opposite roof, whose occupants, engrossed in the fight in the street, in which the police had now joined, had their backs turned and did not observe him. Mr. Guj, pallid and obviously illotuned to such feats, followed him, and finally Billy Windsor reached the other side. Neat, said Smith complacently, uncommonly neat. Comrade Guj reminded me of the untamed chamois of the Alps, leaping from crag to crag. In the street there was now comparative silence, the police with their clubs had knocked the last remnant of fight out of the combatants. Shooting had definitely ceased. I think, said Smith, that we might now descend. If you have no other engagements, comrade Windsor, I will take you to the Knickerbocker and buy you a square meal. I would ask for the pleasure of your company also, comrade Guj, were it not for the matters of private moment relating to the policy of the paper, must be discussed at the table. Some other day perhaps. We are infinitely obliged to you for your sympathetic cooperation in this little matter. And now goodbye. Comrade Windsor, let us debouch. End of Chapter 21 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Boathouse Chapter 22 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 22 Concerning Mr. Waring Smith pushed back his chair slightly, stretched out his legs, and lit a cigarette. The resources of the Knickerbocker Hotel had proved equal to supplying the fatigue staff of cozy moments with an excellent dinner, and Smith had stoutly declined to talk business until the coffee arrived. This had been hard on Billy, who was bursting with his news. Beyond a hint that it was sensational, he had not been permitted to go. More bright young careers than I care to think of, said Smith, have been ruined by the fatal practice of talking shop at dinner. But now that we are through, Comrade Windsor, by all means let us have it. What's the name which Comrade Gouch so eagerly divulged? Billy leaned forward excitedly. Stuart Waring, he whispered. Stuart who? asked Smith. Billy stared. Great Scott, man, he said. Haven't you heard of Stuart Waring? The name seems vaguely familiar, like Isinglass or Post-Toasties. I seem to know it, but it conveys nothing to me. Don't you ever read the papers? I toy with my American of a morning, but my interest is confined mainly to the sporting page, which reminds me that Comrade Brady has been matched against one Eddie Wood a month from today. Gratifying as it is to find one of the staff getting on in life, I fear this will cause us a certain amount of inconvenience. Comrade Brady will have to leave the office temporarily in order to go into training, and what shall we do then for a fighting editor? However, possibly we may not need one now. Cozy Moments should be able to shortly give its message to the world and ease up for a while, which brings us back to the point. Who is Stuart Waring? Stuart Waring is running for City Olderman. He's one of the biggest men in New York. Do you mean in girth? If so, he seems to have selected the right career for himself. He's one of the bosses. He used to be Commissioner of Buildings for the City. Commissioner of Buildings? What exactly did that let him in for? It let him in for a lot of graft. How was that? Ohm, he took it off the contractors, shut his eyes and held out his hands when they ran up rotten buildings that a strong breeze would have knocked down, and places like that pleasant street hall without any ventilation. Why did he throw up the job, inquired Smith? It seems to me that it was among the world's softest. Certain drawbacks to it perhaps to the man with the hair-drigger conscience, but I gather that Comrade Waring did not line up in that class. What was his trouble? His trouble, said Billy, was that he stood in with a contractor who was putting up a music hall, and the contractor put it up with material about as strong as a heap of marangs, and it collapsed on the third night and killed half the audience. And then? The papers raced to Howell, and they got after the contractor, and the contractor gave Waring away. It killed him for the time being. I should have thought that it would have had that excellent result permanently, said Smith thoughtfully. Do you mean to say that he got back again after that? He had to quit being commissioner, of course, and leave town for a time. But affairs move so fast here that a thing like that blows over. He made a pile out of the job and could afford to lie low for a year or two. How long ago was that? Five years. People don't remember a thing here that happened five years back unless they're reminded of it. Smith lit another cigarette. We will remind them, he said. Billy nodded. Of course, he said. One or two of the papers against him in this aldermanic election business tried to bring the thing up, but they didn't cut any ice. The other paper said it was a shame hounding a man who was sorry for the past and was trying to make good now, so they dropped it. Everybody thought that Waring was on the level now. He's been shooting off a lot of hot air lately about philanthropy and so on. Not that he has actually done a thing. Not so much as giving supper to a dozen news boys. But he's talked, and talk gets over if you keep it up long enough. Smith nodded adhesion to the stictum. So that naturally he wants to keep it dark about these tenements. It'll smash him at the election and when it gets known. Why is he so set on becoming an alderman, inquired Smith? There's a lot of graft to being an alderman, explained Billy. I see. No wonder the poor gentleman was so energetic in his methods. What is our move now, Comrade Windsor? Billy stared. Why publish the name, of course. But before then, how are we going to ensure the safety of our evidence? We stand or fall entirely by that slip of paper, because we've got the beggar's name in the writing of his own collector, and that's proof positive. That's all right, said Billy, patting his breast pocket. Nobody's going to get it from me. Smith dripped his hand into his trouser pocket. Comrade Windsor, he said, producing a piece of paper. How do we go? He leaned back in his chair, surveying Billy blandly through his eyeglass. Billy's eyes were gobbling. He looked from Smith to the paper, and from the paper to Smith. What? What the? He stammered. Why? It's it! Smith nodded. How on earth did you get it? Smith knocked the ash off his cigarette. Comrade Windsor, he said, I do not wish to coval or carp or rub it in in any way. I will merely remark that you pretty nearly landed us in the soup, and pass on to more congenial topics. Didn't you know we were following to this place? Followed? By a merchant in what Comrade Melody would call a tall-shaped hat. I spotted him at an early date, somewhere down by 29th Street. When we dived into Sixth Avenue Force Base at 33rd Street, did he dive too? He did. And when we turned into 42nd Street, there he was. I tell you, Comrade Windsor, leeches were aloof and burrs not adhesive compared with that tall-shaped-headed plighter. Yes? Do you remember, as you came to the entrance of this place, someone knocking against you? Yes, there was a pretty big crush in the entrance. There was, but not so big as all that. There was plenty of room for this merchant to pass if he had wished, instead of which he butted into you. I happened to be waiting for just that, so I managed to attach myself to his wrist with some vim, and give it a fairly hefty wrench. The paper was inside his hand. Billy was leaning forward with a pale face. Jove, he muttered. That about sums it up, said Smith. Billy snatched the paper from the table and extended it towards him. Here, he said feverishly, you take it. Come, I never thought I was such a mutt. I'm not fit to take charge of a toothpick. Fancy me not being on the watch for something of that sort. I guess I was so tickled with myself at the thought of having got the thing that it never struck me they might try for it. But I'm through, no more for me. You're the man in charge now. Smith shook his head. These stately compliments, he said. Do my old heart good? But I fancy I know a better plan. It happened that I had a chance to have my eye on the blighter in the tall-shaped hat, and so was unable to land him among the ribstones. But who knows but that in the crowd on Broadway, there may not lurk other unidentified blighters and equally tall-shaped hats, one of whom may work the same sleight of hand speciality on me. It was not that you were not capable of taking care of that paper, it was simply that you didn't happen to spot the man. Now observe me closely, for what follows is an exhibition of brain. He paid the bill, and they went out into the entrance hall of the hotel. Smith, sitting down at the table, placed the paper in an envelope and addressed it to himself at the address of cozy moments, after which he stamped the envelope and dropped it into the letterbox at the back of the hall. And now, Cameron Windsor, he said, Let us stroll gently homewards down the great white way. What matter though it be fairly stiff with low-browed bravos and tall-shaped hats? They cannot harm us. From me, if they search me thoroughly, they may scoop a matter of eleven dollars, a watch, two stamps, and a packet of chewing gum. Whether they will do any better with you, I do not know. At any rate, they wouldn't get the paper, and that's the main thing. You're a genius, said Billy Windsor. You think so, said Smith, definitely. Well, well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right. Did you notice the hired Ruffian in the flannel suit who just passed? He wore a baffled look, I fancy. And hark! Wasn't that a matter of fail, I heard? Or was it the breeze moaning in the treetops? Tonight is a cold, disappointing night for hired Ruffians, Comrade Windsor. End of Chapter 22 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse