 Preface and Chapter 1 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse. The conditions of life in New York are so different from those of London that a story of this kind calls for a little explanation. There are several million inhabitants of New York, not all of them eke out of precarious livelihood by murdering one another, but there is a definite section of the population which murders, not casually on the spur of the moment, but on definite commercial winds at so many dollars per murder. The gangs of New York exists in fact, I have not invented them. Most of the incidents in this story are based on actual happenings. The Rosenthal case, where four men headed by a genial individual calling himself Jip the Blood, shot a fellow citizen in cold blood in a spot as public and fashionable as Piccadilly Circus, and escaped in a motor-car, made such a stir a few years ago that the noise of it was heard all over the world and not, as is generally the case with the doings of the gangs in New York only. Rosenthal cases on a smaller and less sensational scale are frequent occurrences on Manhattan Island. It was the prominence of the victim rather than the unusual nature of the occurrence that excited the New York press. Most gang victims get a quarter of a column in small type. PG. Bodehouse. Chapter 1 Cozy Moments The man in the street would not have known it, but a great crisis was imminent in New York journalism. Everything seemed as much as usual in the city, the cars ran blithely on Broadway, newsboys sounded wuxery into the ears of nervous pedestrians with their usual carousel like Vim. Society passed up and down Fifth Avenue in its automobiles, and was there a furrow of anxiety upon society's brow? None. At a thousand street corners a thousand policemen preserved their air of massive superiority to the things of this world. Not one of them showed the least sign of perturbation, and nevertheless the crisis was at hand. Mr. J. Wilkin-Wilberfloss, editor-in-chief of Cozy Moments, was about to leave his post and start on a ten-weeks holiday. In New York one may find every class of paper which the imagination can conceive. Every grade of society is catered for. If an Eskimo came to New York, the first thing he would find on the bookstalls in all probability would be the Blubber Magazine, or some similar production, written by Eskimo for Eskimo. Everybody reads in New York and reads all the time. The New Yorker peruses his favorite paper while he is being jammed into crowded compartment on the subway or leaping like an antelope into a moving street car. There was thus a public for Cozy Moments. Cozy Moments, as its name, an inspiration of Mr. Wilberfloss' own, is designed to imply as a journal for the home. It is the sort of paper which the father of the family is expected to take home with him from his office and read aloud to the chicks before bedtime. It was founded by its proprietor, Mr. Benjamin White, as an antidote to yellow journalism. One is forced to admit that up to the present yellow journalism seems to be competing against it with a certain measure of success. Headlines are still of generous a size as here to fore, and there is no tendency on the part of editors to scamp the details of the last murder case. And nevertheless, Cozy Moments thrives. It has its public. Its contents are mildly interesting, if you like that sort of thing. There is Moments in the Nursery Page, conducted by Luella Granville Waterman, to which parents are invited to contribute the bright speeches of their offspring, and which bristles with little stories about the nursery canary by Jane, age six, and other works of rising young authors. There is Moments of Meditation Page, conducted by the Reverend Edwin T. Phil Potts, a moment among the master's page consisting of assorted chunks looted from the literature of the past when foreheads were bulgy and thoughts profound by Mr. Wilberfloss himself. Out of two other pages, a short story answers to correspondence on domestic matters, and a Moments of Murth page, conducted by an alleged humorist of the name of B. Henderson Asher, which is about the most painful production ever served up to a confiding public. The guiding spirit of Cozy Moments was Mr. Wilberfloss. Circumstances had left the development of the paper mainly to him. For the past twelve months the proprietor had been away in Europe, taking the waters at Carlsbad, and the sole control of Cozy Moments had passed into the hands of Mr. Wilberfloss. A nor had he proved unworthy of the trust or unequal to the duties. In that year Cozy Moments had reached the highest possible level of domesticity. Anything not calculated to appeal to the home had been rigidly excluded, and as a result the circulation had increased steadily. Two extra pages had been added, Moments Among the Shoppers and Moments with Society, and the advertisements had grown in volume, but the work had told upon the editor—a work of that sort carries its penalties with it—success means absorption, and absorption spells suffining of the brain. Whether it was the strain of digging into literature of the past every week, or the effort of reading B. Henderson Asher's Moments of Murth, is uncertain. At any rate, his duties, combined with the heat of a New York summer, had sapped Mr. Wilberfloss' health to such an extent that the doctor had ordered him ten weeks complete rest in the mountains. This Mr. Wilberfloss could, perhaps, have endured if this had been all. There are worse places in the mountains of America in which to spend ten weeks of the tail end of summer when the sun has ceased to grill and the mosquitoes have relaxed their exertions. But it was not all. The doctor, a far-saying man who went down to first causes, had absolutely declined to consent to Mr. Wilberfloss' suggestion that he should keep in touch with the paper during his vacation. He was adamant. He had seen copies of cozy moments once or twice, and he had refused to permit a man in the editor's state of health to come into contact with Luella Granville Waterman's Moments in the Nursery, and B. Henderson Asher's Moments of Murth. The medicine man put his foot down firmly. "'You must not see so much as the cover of the paper for ten weeks,' he said, and I am not so sure that it shouldn't be longer. You must forget that such a paper exists. You must dismiss the whole thing from your mind, live in the open, and develop a little flesh and muscle.'" To Mr. Wilberfloss, the sentence was almost equivalent to Penal Servitude. It was with tears in his voice that he was giving his final instructions to his sub-editor in whose charge the paper would be left during his absence. He had taken a long time doing this. For two days he had been fussing in and out of the office to the discontent of its inmates, more especially Billy Windsor, the sub-editor, who is now listening moodily to the last harangue of the series, with the air of one whose heart is not in the subject. A Billy Windsor was a tall, wiry, loose-jointed young man with unkempt hair and the general demeanor of a caged eagle. Looking at him, one could picture him as stride up Bronco, rounding up cattle, or cooking his dinner at a campfire. Somehow he did not seem to fit into the cozy moment's atmosphere. "'Well, I think that is all, Mr. Windsor,' chirped the editor. He was a little man with a long neck and a large pen's nez, and he always chirped. You understand the general lines on which I think the paper should be conducted?' The sub-editor nodded. Mr. Wilberfloss made him tired. Sometimes he made him more tired than at other times. At the present moment he filled him with an aching weariness. The editor meant well and was full of zeal, but he had a habit of covering and recovering the ground. He possessed the art of saying the same obvious thing in a number of different ways to a degree which he's found usually only in politicians. If Mr. Wilberfloss had been a politician, he would have been one of those dealers in glittering generalities who used to be fashionable in American politics. "'There is just one thing,' he continued. "'Mrs. Julia Burdette-Parslow is a little inclined that I may have mentioned this before.' "'You did,' said the sub-editor. Mr. Wilberfloss chirped on, unchecked. A little inclined to be late with her moments with budding girlhood. If this should happen while I'm away, just write her a letter, quite a pleasant letter, you understand, appointing up the necessity of being in good time. The machinery of a weekly paper, of course, cannot run smoothly unless contributors are in good time with their copy. She is a very sense-or-man, and she will understand, I am sure, if you pointed out to her.' The sub-editor nodded. "'And there is just one other thing. I wish you would correct the slight tendency I have noticed lately in Mr. Asher to be a just-trifle, well, not precisely risky, but perhaps a shade broad in his humor.' "'His what?' said Billy Windsor. "'Mr. Asher is a very sensible man. He will be the first to acknowledge that his sense of humor has led him just a little beyond the bounds. You understand? Well, that is all, I think. Now I really must be going, or I shall miss my train. Goodbye, Mr. Windsor.' "'Goodbye,' said the sub-editor, thankfully. At the door, Mr. Wilberfloss paused with the air of an exile bidding farewell to his native land, sighed, and trotted out. Billy Windsor put his feet upon the table, and with a deep scale resumed his task of reading the proofs of Llewela Grandville Waterman's moments in the nursery. Chapter 2 Billy Windsor Billy Windsor has started life twenty-five years before the story opens on his father's ranch in Wyoming. From there he had gone on to a local paper of the type whose society column consists of such items as, Pony Jim Williams was to town yesterday with a bunch of other cheap skates. We take this opportunity of once more informing Jim that he is a liar and a skunk, and whose editor works with a revolver on his desk and another in his hip pocket. Graduating from this, he had proceeded to a reporter's post on a daily paper in a Kentucky town, where there were blood feuds and other southern devices for preventing life from becoming dull. All this time New York, the magnet, had been tugging at him. All reporters' dream of reaching New York. At last, after four years on the Kentucky paper, he had come east, minus the lobe of one ear, and plus a long scar that ran diagonally across his left shoulder, and had worked without much success as a freelance. He was tough and ready for anything that might come his way, but these things are a great deal a matter of luck. The cub reporter cannot make a name for himself unless he is favored by fortune. Things had not come Billy Windsor's way. His work had been confined to turning in reports of fires and small street accidents, which the various papers to which he supplied them cut down to a couple of inches. Billy had been in a bad way when he had happened upon the sub-editorship of cozy moments. He despised the work with all his heart, and the salary was infinitesimal. But it was regular, and for a while Billy felt that a regular salary was the greatest thing on earth. But he still dreamed of winning through to a post on one of the big New York dailies, where there was something doing and a man would have a chance of showing what was in him. The unfortunate thing, however, was that cozy moments took up his time so completely he had no chance of attracting the notice of the big editors by his present work, and he had no leisure for doing any other, all of which may go to explain why his normal aspect was that of a caged eagle. To him brooding over the outpourings of Luella Granville Waterman, there entered Pugsie Maloney, the office boy, bearing a struggling cat. Say, said Pugsie. He was a nonchalant youth with a freckled, mask-like face, the expression of which never varied. He appeared unconscious of the cat. Its existence did not seem to occur to him. Well, said Billy, looking up, hello, what have you got there? Master Maloney eyed the cat, as if you were seeing it for the first time. It's a kitty what I got in the street, he said. Don't hurt the poor brute, put her down. Master Maloney obediently dropped the cat, which sprang nimbly on the upper shelf of the bookcase. I wasn't avoiding her, he said, without emotion. There was two fellas in the street, sick and a dog onto her, and I comes up and says, go on, what do you think you're doing, fussing with the poor dumb animal? And one of the guys, he says, go on, who do you think you is? And I says, I'm the guy what's going to swatch you one on the cocoa if you don't quiz fussing with the poor dumb animal. So with Dad he makes a break, it's what me one, but I swat's him one, and then I swat's the other fella one, and then I swat's him both some more, and I get to kitty and I brings her in here because I think maybe you use a look after her. And having finished this Homeric narrative, Master Maloney fixed an expressionless eye on the ceiling, and was silent. Billy Windsor, like most men of the plains, combined the toughest of muscle with the softest of hearts. He was always ready at any moment to become the champion of the oppressed on the slightest provocation. His alliance with Pugsie Maloney had begun on the occasion when he had rescued that youth from the clutches of a large Negro, who probably from the soundest of motives was endeavoring to slay him. Billy had not inquired into the rights and wrongs of the matter. He had merely sailed in and rescued the office boy. And Pugsie, though he had made no verbal comment on the affair, had shown in many ways that he was not ungrateful. Bully, for you, Pugsie, he cried, you're a little sport. Here, he produced a dollar bill. Go out and get some milk for the poor brute. She's probably starving. Keep the change. Shoting, assented Master Maloney. He strolled slowly out while Billy Windsor, mounting a chair, proceeded to chirp and snap his fingers in the effort to establish the foundations of an entente cordial with the rescued cat. By the time that Pugsie returned carrying a five-cent bottle of milk, the animal had vacated the bookshelf and was sitting on the table, washing her face. The milk having been poured into the lid of a tobacco tin in lieu of a saucer, she suspended her operations and adjourned for refreshments. Billy, business being business, turned again to Llewela Granville Waterman, but Pugsie, having no immediate duties on hand, concentrated himself on the cat. Say, he said, well, dead kitty. What about her? Pipe the leather collar she's wearing. Billy had noticed earlier in the proceedings that a narrow leather collar encircled the cat's neck. He had not paid any particular attention to it. What about it, he said? Guess I know where that kitty belongs. They all have those collars. I guess she's one of Bat Jarvis's kitties. He's got a lot of them for fair, and everyone with one of them collars round their neck. Who's Bat Jarvis? Do you mean the gang leader? Sure. He's a cousin of mine, said Master Maloney, with pride. Is he, said Billy. Nice sort of fellow to have in the family. So you think that's his cat? Sure. He's got twenty-eight three at him, and they all has those collars. Are you on speaking terms with the gentleman? Huh? Do you know Bat Jarvis to speak to? Sure. He's my cousin. Well, tell him I've got the cat, and that if he wants it, he'd better come round to my place. You know where I live? Sure. Fancy you being a cousin of Bat's, Pugsie. Why did you never tell us? Are you going to join the gang some day? Nope. Not in doing. I'm going to be a cowboy. Good for you. Well, you tell him when you see him, and now, my lad, how would you get? Because if I'm interrupted any more, I shan't get through tonight. Sure, said Master Maloney, retiring. Oh, and Pugsie? Huh? Go out and get a good big basket, and she'll want one to carry this animal home in. Sure, said Master Maloney. End of Chapter 2 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse. Chapter 3 At the Gardenia It would ill be seen me, Comrade Jackson, said Smith, thoughtfully sipping his coffee, to run down the metropolis of a great and friendly nation, but Kandor compels me to state that New York is in some respects a singularly blighted town. What's the matter with it? asked Mike. Too decorous, Comrade Jackson, I came over here principally, it is true, to be at your side, should you be in any way persecuted by scoundrels. But at the same time, I confess that at the back of my mind there lurk to hope that stirring adventures might come my way. I had heard so much of the place. Report had it, that an earnest seeker after amusement might have a tolerably spacious rag in this modern Byzantium. I thought that a few weeks here might restore that keen edge to my nervous system, which the languor of the past term had in a measure blunted. I wished my visit to be a tonic, rather than a sedative. I anticipated that on my return the cry would go round Cambridge. Smith has been to New York. He is full of oats, for he on honey-dew hath fed and drunk the milk of paradise. He is hot stuff, raw. But what do we find? He paused, and that a cigarette. What do we find? he asked again. I don't know, said Mike. What? A very judicious query, Comrade Jackson. What indeed? We find a town very like London, a quiet, self-respecting town admirable to the apostle of social reform, but disappointing to one who, like myself, arrives with a brush and a little bucket of red paint all eager for a treat. I have been here a week, and I have not seen a single citizen clubbed by a policeman. No Negroes dance cake walks in the street. No cowboy has let off his revolver at a random in Broadway. The cables flashed the message across the ocean. Smith is losing his illusions. Mike had come to America with the team of the MCC, which was touring the cricket-playing section of the United States. Smith had accompanied him in a private capacity. It was the end of their first year at Cambridge, and Mike, with a century against Alfred to his credit, had been one of the first to be invited to join the tour. Smith, who had played cricket in a rather desultory way at the university, had not risen to these heights. He had merely taken the opportunity of Mike's visit to the other side to accompany him. Cambridge had proved pleasant to Smith, but a tribal quiet. He had welcomed the chance of getting a change of scene. So far the visit had failed to satisfy him. Mike, whose taste and pleasure were simple, was delighted with everything. The cricket so far had been rather of the picnic order, but it was very pleasant, and there was no limit to the hospitality with which the visitors were treated. It was this more than anything which had caused Smith's grave disapproval of things American. He was not a member of the team, so that the advantages of the hospitality did not reach him. He had all of the disadvantages. He saw far too little of Mike. When he wished to consult his confidential secretary and adviser on some aspect of life, that invaluable official was generally absent at dinner with the rest of the team. Night was one of the rare occasions when Mike could get away. Smith was becoming bored. New York is a better city than London to be alone in, but it is never pleasant to be alone in any big city. As they set discussing New York's shortcomings over their coffee, a young man passed them carrying a basket and seated himself at the next table. He was a tall, loose-jointed young man with unkempt hair. A waiter made an ingratiating gesture towards the basket, but the young man stopped him. Not on your life, Sunny, he said. This stays right here. He placed it carefully on the floor beside his chair and proceeded to order dinner. Smith watched him thoughtfully. I have a suspicion, Comrade Jackson, he said, that this will prove to be a somewhat stout fellow. If possible, we will engage him in conversation. I wonder what he's got in the basket. I must get my Sherlock home system to work. What is the most likely thing for a man to have in a basket? Apply, in your unthinking way, sandwiches. Error. A man with a basket full of sandwiches does not need to dine at restaurants. We must try again. The young man at the next table had ordered a jug of milk to be accompanied by a saucer. These having arrived, he proceeded to lift the basket onto his lap, pour the milk into the saucer, and remove the lid from the basket. Instantly, with a yell which made the young man's table the centre of interest to all the diners, a large gray cat shot up like a rocket and darted across the room. Smith watched with silent interest. It is hard to astonish the waiters at New York Restaurant, but when the cat performed this feat there was a squeal of surprise all around the room. Waiters rushed to and fro futile but energetic. The cat, having secured a strong strategic position at the top of a large oil painting which hung on the far wall, was expressing loud disapproval of the efforts of one of the waiters to drive it from its post with a walking stick. The young man, seeing these maneuvers, uttered a wrathful shout and rushed to the rescue. Comrade Jackson, said Smith Rising, we must be in this. When they arrived on the scene of hostilities, the young man had just possessed himself of the walking stick and was deep at a complex argument with the head waiter on the ethics of the matter. The head waiter, a stout impassive German, had taken his stand on a point of etiquette. It is, he said, to bring cats into the girl room forbidden. No gentleman would cats into the girl room bring. The gentleman, the young man, meanwhile, was making enticing sounds, to which the cat was maintaining an attitude of reserved hostility. He turned furiously on the head waiter. For goodness sake, he cried. Can't you see the poor brute's scared stiff? Why don't you clear a gang of German comedians away and give her a chance to come down? The gentleman, argued the head waiter. Smith stepped forward and touched him on the arm. May I have a word with you in private? So Smith drew him away. You don't know who that is? He whispered, nodding towards the young man. No gentleman is he, asserted the head waiter. The gentleman would not bring their cat into. Smith shook his head pityingly. These petty matters of etiquette are not for his grace, but he wishes to preserve his incognito. You understand, you are a man of the world, comrade. May I call you Freddie? You understand, comrade Freddie, that in a man in his gracious position a few little eccentricities may be pardoned. You follow me, Frederick. The head waiter's eye rested upon the young man with a new interest and respect. He is noble, he inquired with awe. He is your strictly incognito, you understand, said Smith, warningly. The head waiter nodded. The young man, meanwhile, had broken down the cat's reserve, and was now standing with her in his arms, apparently anxious to fight all comers in her defense. The head waiter approached deferentially. Dordano, he said, indicating Smith, who beamed in a friendly manner through his eyeglass, hath everything explained, all will now quite satisfactorily be. The young man looked inquiringly at Smith, who winked encouragingly. The head waiter bowed. Let me present comrade Jackson, said Smith, the pet of our English smart set. I am Smith, one of the Shropshire Smiths. This is a great moment. Shall we be moving back? We were about to order a second installment of coffee, to correct the effects of a fatiguing day. Perhaps you would care to join us? Sure, said the alleged Duke. This, said Smith, when they were seated, and the head waiter had ceased to have her, is a great meeting. I was complaining with some acerbity to comrade Jackson, before you introduced your very interesting performing animal specialty, that things in New York were too quiet, too decorous. I have an inkling, comrade— Windsor's my name. I have an inkling, comrade Windsor, that we see eye to eye on the subject. I guess that's right. I was raised in the plains, and I lived in Kentucky a while. There's more doing there in a day than there is here in a month. Say, how did you fix it with the old man? With comrade Freddie—I have a certain amount of influence with him—he is content to order his movements in the main by my judgment. I assured him that all would be well, and he yielded. Smith gazed with interest at the cat who was lapping milk from the saucer. Are you training that animal for a show of some kind, comrade Windsor, or is it a domestic pet? I have adopted her. The office boy on our paper got her away from a dog this morning, and gave her to me. Your paper? Cozy moments, said Billy Windsor, with a touch of shame. Cozy moments, said Smith reflectively. I regret that the bright little sheet has not come my way up to the present. I must seize an early opportunity of perusing it. Don't you do it? You've no paternal pride in the little journal? It's bad enough to hurt, said Billy Windsor, disgustedly. If you really want to see it, come along with me to my place, and I'll show you a copy. It will be a pleasure, said Smith. Comrade Jackson, have you any previous engagement for tonight? I'm not doing anything, said Mike. Then let us stagger forth with comrade Windsor, while he is loading up that basket. We will be collecting our hats. I am not half-sure, comrade Jackson, he added as they walked out, that comrade Windsor may not prove to be the genial spirit for whom I have been searching. If you could give me your undivided company, I should ask no more. But with you constantly away, mingling with the gay throng, it is imperative that I have some solid man to accompany me in my ramblings hither and thither. It is possible that comrade Windsor may possess the qualifications necessary for the post. But here he comes. Let us foregather with him and observe him in private life before arriving at any premature decision. Chapter 4. Bat Jarvis Billy Windsor lived in a single room on East 14th Street. Space in New York is valuable, and the average bachelor's apartments consist of one room with a bathroom opening off of it. During the daytime, this room loses all traces of being used for sleeping purposes at night. Billy Windsor's room was very much like a public school study. A long one-wall ran as a tea. At night, this became a bed, but in the daytime it was as a tea, and nothing but a tea. There was no space for a great deal of furniture. There was one rocking chair, two ordinary chairs, a table, a book stand, a typewriter—nobody uses pens in New York—and on the walls a mixed collection of photographs, drawings, knives, and skins, relics of their owner's prairie days. Over the door was the head of a young bear. Billy's first act on arriving in the sanctum was to release the cat, which, having moved restlessly about for some moments, finally came to the conclusion that there was no means of getting out and settled itself on a corner of the city. Smith, sinking gracefully down beside it, stretched out his legs and lit a cigarette. Mike took one of the ordinary chairs, and Billy Windsor, planting himself in the rocker, began to rock rhythmically to and fro, a performance which he kept up untiringly all the time. A peaceful scene, observed Smith, three great minds, keen, alert, restless during business hours, relax. All is calm and pleasant chit-chat. You have snug quarters up here, Comrade Windsor. I hold that there is nothing like one's own roof-tree. It is a great treat to one who, like myself, is located in one of these vast caravanasseries, to be exact the Aster, to pass a few moments in the quiet privacy of an apartment such as this. It's beastly expensive at the Aster, said Mike. The place has that drawback also. Anon, Comrade Jackson, I think we will hunt around for some such cubbyhole as this, built for two. Our nervous systems must be conserved. On Fourth Avenue, said Billy Windsor, you can get quite good flats very cheap. Furnished, too. You should move there. It's not much of a neighborhood. I don't know if you mind that. Far from it, Comrade Windsor, it is my aim to see New York in all its phases. If a certain amount of harmless revelry can be whacked out of Fourth Avenue, we must dash there with all the vim of highly-trained smell-dogs. Are you with me, Comrade Jackson? All right, said Mike. And now, Comrade Windsor, it would be a pleasure to me to peruse that little journal of which you spoke. I have had so few opportunities of getting into touch with the literature of this great country. Billy Windsor stretched out an arm and pulled a bundle of papers from the book stand. He tossed them onto his tea by Smith's side. There you are, he said, if you really feel like it. Don't say I didn't warn you. If you got the nerve, read on. Smith had picked up one of the papers when there came a shuffling of feet in the passage outside, followed by a knock upon the door. The next moment there appeared in the doorway a short, stout young man. There was an indescribable air of toughness about him, partly due to the fact that he wore his hair in a well-oiled fringe almost down to his eyebrows, which gave him the appearance of having no forehead at all. His eyes were small and sit close together. His mouth was wide, his jaw prominent. Not, in short, the sort of man you would have picked out on sight as a model citizen. His acquaintance was marked by a curious, sibilant sound, which on acquaintance proved to be a whistled tune. During the interview which followed, except when he was speaking, the visitor whistled softly and unceasingly. Mr. Windsor, he said to the company at large, Smith waved a hand toward the rocking chair. That, he said, is Comrade Windsor. To your right is Comrade Jackson, England's favourite son. I am Smith. The visitor blinked furtively and whistled another tune. As he looked round the room, his eye fell on the cat. His face lit up. Say, he said, stepping forward and touching the cat's collar. Mine, Mr. Are you Bat Jarvis? asked Windsor with interest. Sure, said the visitor, not without a touch of complacency, as of a monarch abandoning his incognito. For Mr. Jarvis was a celebrity. By profession he was a dealer in animals, birds, and snakes. He had a fancier shop in Groom Street in the heart of the Bowery. This was on the ground floor. His living abode was in the upper story of that house, and it was there that he kept the twenty-three cats whose necks were adorned with the leather collars and whose numbers had so recently been reduced to twenty-two. But it was not the fact that he possessed twenty-three cats with leather collars that made Mr. Jarvis a celebrity. A man may win purely local reputation, if only for eccentricity, by such means. But Mr. Jarvis's reputation was far from being purely local. Broadway knew him, and the tenderloin. Tammany Hall knew him. Long Island City knew him. In the underworld of New York his name was a byword. For Bat Jarvis was the leader of the famous Groom Street gang, the most noted of all New York's collections of apaches. More, he was the founder and originator of it, and curiously enough it had come into being from motives of sheer benevolence. In Groom Street in those days there had been a dance hall, named the Shamrock, and presided over by one McGinnis, an Irishman, and a friend of Bat's. At the Shamrock nightly dances were given, and well attended by the youth of the neighborhood at ten cents ahead. All might have been well had it not been for certain other youths of the neighborhood who did not dance, and so had to seek other means of getting rid of their surplus energy. It was the practice of these lighthearted sportsmen to pay their ten cents for admittance, and once in to make hay. And this habit, Mr. McGinnis found, was having a marked effect on his earnings. For genuine lovers of the dance fought shy of a place where at any moment Philistines might burst in and break heads and furniture. In this crisis the proprietor had thought of his friend Bat Jarvis. Bat, at that time, had a solid reputation as a man of his hands. It is true that, as his detractors pointed out, he had killed no one, a defect which he had subsequently corrected, but his admirers based his claim to respect on his many meritorious performances with Fiss and with the Blackjack. And Mr. McGinnis for one held him in the very highest esteem. To Bat accordingly he went and laid his painful case before him. He offered him a handsome salary to be on hand at the nightly dances and check undue revelry by his own robust methods. Bat had accepted the offer. He had gone to Shamrock Hall and with him, faithful adherents, had gone such stalwarts as Long Otto, Red Logan, Tommy Jefferson, and Pete Brody. Shamrock Hall became a place of joy and order, and, more important still, the nucleus of the Groom Street gang had been formed. The work progressed. Offshoots of the main gang sprang up here and there about the east side. Small thieves, pickpockets, and the like flocked to Mr. Jarvis's, their tribal leader and protector, and he protected them. For he, with his followers, were of use to the politicians. The New York gangs, and especially the Groom Street gang, have brought to a fine art the gentle practice of repeating, which, broadly speaking, is the art of voting a number of different times at different polling stations on election days. A man who can vote, say, ten times in a single day for you, and who controls a great number of followers who are also prepared, if they like you, to vote ten times in a single day for you, is worth cultivating. So the politicians passed the word to the police, and the police left the Groom Street gang unmolested, and they waxed fat and flourished. Such was Bat Jarvis. Pipe de Kala, said Mr. Jarvis, touching the cat's neck. Mine, Mr. Pugsie said it must be, said Billy Windsor. We found two fellows setting a dog on to it, and so we took it in for safety. Mr. Jarvis nodded approval. There's a basket here, if you want it, said Billy. Nope, here, kit. Mr. Jarvis stooped, and still whistling softly lifted the cat. He looked round the company, met Smith's eyeglass, and was transfixed by it for a moment, and finally turned again to Billy Windsor. Say, he said, and paused. Appliedged, he added. He shifted the cat onto his left arm, and extended his right hand to Billy. Shake, he said. Billy did so. Mr. Jarvis continued to stand and whistle for a few moments more. Say, he said at length, fixing his roving gaze once more upon Billy. Appliedged, fond of the kit I am. Smith nodded approvingly. And rightly, he said. Brightly, Comrade Jarvis, she is not unworthy of your affection. A most companionable animal, full of the highest spirits. Her knockabout act in the restaurant would have satisfied the most jaded critic. No dinner out can afford to be without such a cat. Such a cat spells death to boredom. Mr. Jarvis eyed him fixedly as if pondering over his remarks. Then he turned to Billy again. Say, he said, any time you're in bed, glad to be a service. You know the address, Groom Street. Bad Jarvis. Good night. Appliedged. He paused and whistled a few more bars, then nodded to Smith and Mike and left the room. They heard him shuffling downstairs. Appliedged, spirited, said Smith. Not garrulous, perhaps, but what of that? I am a man of few words myself. Comrade Jarvis's massive silences appeal to me. He seems to have taken a fancy to you, Comrade Windsor. Billy Windsor laughed. I don't know that he's just the sort of side-partner I go out of my way to choose from what I've heard about him. Still, if one got mixed up with any of that East side crowd, he would be a mighty or useful friend to have. I guess there's no harm done by getting him grateful. I surely not, said Smith. We should not despise the humblest. And now, Comrade Windsor, he said, taking up the paper again, let me concentrate myself tensely on this very entertaining little journal of yours. Comrade Jackson, here is one for you. For sound, clear-headed criticism, he added to Billy, Comrade Jackson's name is a by-word in our English literary salons. His opinion will be of both interest and of profit to you, Comrade Windsor. CHAPTER V. PLANNING IMPROVEMENTS By the way, said Smith, what is your exact position on this paper? Practically, we know well, you are its backbone, its lifeblood, but what is your technical position? When your proprietor is congratulating himself on having secured the ideal man for your job, what precise job does he congratulate himself on having secured the ideal man for? I'm sub-editor. CHAPTER V. Merely sub? You deserve a more responsible post than that, Comrade Windsor. Where is your proprietor? I must buttonhole him and point out to him what a wealth of talent he is allowing to waste itself. You must have scope. He's in Europe, or Carlsbad, or somewhere. He never comes near the paper. He just sits tight and draws the profits. He lets the editor look after things. Just at present, I'm acting as editor. Ah, then at last you have your big chance. You are free, untrammeled. You bet I'm not, said Billy Windsor. Guess again, there's no room for developing free, untrammeled ideas on this paper. When you've looked at it, you'll see that each page is run by someone. I'm simply the fellow who minds the shop. Smith clicked his tongue sympathetically. It is like setting a gifted French chef to wash up dishes, he said. I, man of your undoubted powers, Comrade Windsor, should have more scope. That is the cry. More scope! I must look into this matter. When I gaze at your broad bulging forehead, when I see the clear light of intelligence in your eyes and hear the grey matter splashing restlessly about in your cerebellum, I say to myself without hesitation, Comrade Windsor must have more scope. He looked at Mike, who was turning over the leaves of his copy of cozy moments in a sort of dull despair. Well, Comrade Jackson, and what is your verdict? Mike looked at Billy Windsor. He wished to be polite, yet he could find nothing polite to say. Billy interpreted the look. Go on, he said. Say it. It can't be worse than what I think. I expect some people would like it awfully, said Mike. They must, or they wouldn't buy it. I've never met any of them yet, though. Smith was deep in the Wella Granville Waterman's moments in the nursery. He turned to Billy Windsor. La Wella Granville Waterman, he said, is not by any chance your nom de plume, Comrade Windsor? Not on your life! Don't think it! I am glad, said Smith critically. For speaking as man to man, I must confess that for sheer concentrated build she gets away with the biscuit with almost insolent ease. La Wella Granville Waterman must go. How do you mean? She must go, repeated Smith firmly. Your first act, now that you have swiped the editorial chair, must be to sack her. But say, I can't. The editor thinks a heap of her stuff. We cannot help his troubles. We must act for the good of the paper. Moreover, you said I think that he was away. So he is. But he'll come back. Sufficient unto the day, Comrade Windsor. I have a suspicion that he will be the first to approve your action. His holiday will have cleared his brain. Make a note of improvement number one, the sacking of La Wella Granville Waterman. I guess it'll be followed pretty quick by improvement number two, the sacking of William Windsor. I can't go monkeying about with the paper that way. Smith reflected for a moment. Has this job of yours any special attractions for you, Comrade Windsor? I guess not. As I suspected, you yearn for scope. What exactly are your ambitions? I want to get a job on one of the big dailies. I don't see how I'm going to fix it, though, at the present rate. Smith rose and tapped him earnestly on the chest. Comrade Windsor, you have touched the spot. You are wasting the golden hours of your youth. You must move. You must hustle. You must make Windsor of cozy moments a name to conjure with. You must boost this little sheet up till New York rings with your exploits. On the present line, that is impossible. You must strike out a line for yourself. You must show the world that even cozy moments cannot keep a good man down. He resumed his seat. How do you mean? said Billy Windsor. Smith turned to Mike. Comrade Jackson, if you were editing this paper, is there a single feature you would willingly retain? I don't think there is, said Mike. It's all pretty bad rot. My opinion, in a nutshell, said Smith approvingly, Comrade Jackson, he explained, turning to Billy, has a secure reputation on the other side for the keenness and lucidity of his views upon literature. You may safely build upon him. In England, when Comrade Jackson says turn, we all turn. Now, my views on the matter are as follows. Cozy moments, in my opinion, worthless, were it not backed by such a virtuoso as Comrade Jackson, needs more snap, more go. All these putrid pages must disappear. Letters must be dispatched tomorrow morning, informing Luella Grandville Waterman and the others, and, in particular, B. Henderson Asher, who, from a cursory glance, strikes me as an ideal candidate for a lethal chamber. That, unless they cease their contributions instantly, you will be compelled to place yourself under police protection. After that, we can begin to move. Billy Windsor sat and rocked himself in his chair without replying. He was trying to assimilate the idea. So far, the grandeur of it had dazed him. It was too spacious, too revolutionary. Could it be done? It would undoubtedly mean the sack when Mr. J. Philkot-Wilberfloss returned and found the apple of his eye torn asunder, and, so to speak, deprived of its choices' pips. On the other hand, his brow suddenly cleared. His brow suddenly cleared. After all, what was the sack? One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name, and he would have no name as long as he clung to his present position. The editor would be away ten weeks. He would have ten weeks in which to try himself out. Hope left within him. In ten weeks he could change cozy moments into a real, live paper. He wondered that the idea had not occurred to him before. The trifling fact that the despised journal was the property of Mr. Benjamin White, and that he had no right whatever to tinker with it without that gentleman's approval, may have occurred to him, but, if it did, it occurred so momentarily that he did not notice it. In these crises one cannot think of everything. I'm on, he said briefly. Smith smiled approvingly. That, he said, is the right spirit. You will, I fancy, have little cause to regret your decision. Fortunately, if I may say so, I happen to have a certain amount of leisure just now. It isn't your disposal. I have had little experience of journalistic work, but I foresee that I shall be a quick learner. I will become your sub-editor without salary. Bully for you, said Billy Windsor. Comrade Jackson, continued Smith, is unhappily more fettered. The exigencies of his cricket tour will compel him to constantly be gadding about. Now to Philadelphia, now to Saskatchewan, anon to one horse-filled Georgia. His services, therefore, cannot be relied upon continuously. From him, accordingly, we shall expect little but moral support. An occasional congratulatory telegram. Now and then a bright smile of approval. The bulk of the work will devolve upon our two selves. Let it devolve, said Billy Windsor enthusiastically. Assuredly, said Smith, and now to decide upon our main scheme. You, of course, are the editor, and my suggestions are merely suggestions subject to your approval. But briefly, my idea is that cozy moments should become red-hot stuff. I could wish it's tone to be such that the public will wonder why we do not print it on asbestos. We must chronicle all the live events of the day, murders, fires, and the like, in a manner which will make our readers' spines thrill. Above all, we must be the guardians of the people's rights. We must be a searchlight, showing up the dark spot in the souls of those who would endeavor in any way to do the people in the eye. We must detect the wrongdoer and deliver him such a series of resentful buffs that he will abandon his little games and become a moral citizen. The details of the campaign we must think out after. But I fancy that if we follow those main lines, we shall produce a bright readable little sheet which will in a measure make this city sit up and take notice. Are you with me, Comrade Windsor? Surest thing you know, said Billy with fervor. End of Chapter 5 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse Chapter 6 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by P. G. Berea. Chapter 6 The Tenements To alter the scheme of a weekly from cover to cover is not a task that is completed without work. The dismissal of Cozy Moments' entire staff of contributors left a gap in the paper which had to be filled, and owing to the nearness of press-stave there was no time to fill it before the issue of the next number. The editorial staff had to be satisfied with heading every page with the words, Look out! Look out! Look out! See, foot of page! Printing in the space at the bottom of the legend, Next week! See, editorial! And compiling in conjunction a snappy editorial, setting forth the proposed changes. This was largely the work of Smith. Comrade Jackson, he said to Mike as they set forth one evening in search of their new flat, I fancy have found my Mathieu. Commerce, many considered, was the line I should take, and doubtless had I stuck to that walk in life I should soon have become a financial magnate. But something seemed to whisper to me, even in the midst of my triumphs in the New Asiatic Bank, that there were other fields. For the moment it seems that I have found the job for which nature specially designed me. At last I have scope. And without scope where are we? Wedged tightly in among the ribstons. There are some very fine passages in that editorial. The last paragraph beginning, Cozy Moments cannot be muzzled in particular. I like it. It strikes the right note. It should stir the blood of a free and independent people till they sit in platoons on the doorstep of our office, waiting for the next number to appear. How about that next number? Asked Mike. Are you and Windsor going to fill the whole paper yourselves? By no means. It seems that Comrade Windsor knows certain stout fellows, reporters on other papers, who will be delighted to weigh in with stuff for a moderate fee. How about Luella Whatser name and the others? How have they taken it? Up to the present we have no means of ascertaining. The letters, giving them the miss-in-bulk and no uncertain voice, were only dispatched yesterday. But it cannot affect us how they writhe beneath the blow. There is no reprieve. Mike roared with laughter. It's the rummiest business I ever struck, he said. I'm jolly glad it's not my paper. It's pretty lucky for you two lunatics at the proprietors in Europe. Smith regarded him with pain to surprise. I do not understand you, Comrade Jackson. Do you insinuate that we are not acting in the proprietor's best interest? When he sees the receipts after we have handled the paper for a while, he will go singing about in his hotel. His beaming smile will be a byword in Carl's bed. Visitors will be shown it as one of the sites. His only doubt will be whether to send his money to the bank or keep it in tubs and roll in it. We are on to a big thing, Comrade Jackson. Wait till you see our first number. And how about the editor? I should think that the first number would bring him back foaming at the mouth. I have ascertained from Comrade Windsor that there is nothing to fear from that quarter. By a single stroke of good fortune, Comrade Wilberfloss, his name is Wilberfloss, has been ordered complete rest during his holiday. The kindly medico, realizing the fearful straight inflicted by reading cozy moments in its old form, specifically mentioned that the paper was to be withheld from him until he returned. And when he does return, what are you going to do? By that time doubtless, the paper will be in so flourishing a state that he will confess how wrong his own methods were and adopt ours without a murmur. In the meantime, Comrade Jackson, I would call your attention to the fact that we seem to have lost our way. In the exhilaration of this little chat, our footsteps have wandered. Where we are, goodness only knows. I can only say that I shouldn't care to have to live here. There's a name on the other side of that lamppost. Let us wind in that direction. Ah, Pleasant Street? I fancy the mastermind who chose that name must have had the rudiments of a sense of humor. It was indeed a repellent neighborhood in which they had arrived. The New York slum stands in a class of its own. It is unique. The height of the houses and the narrowness of the streets seem to condense its unpleasantness. All the smells and noises, which are many didn't varied, are penned in a sort of canyon and gain in vehemence from the fact. The masses of dirty clothes hanging from the fire escapes increase the depression. Nowhere in this city does one realize so fully the disadvantages of a lack of space. New York, being an island, has no room to spread. It is a town of human sardines, and the poorer quarters the congestion is unbelievable. Smith and Mike picked their way through groups of ragged children who covered the roadway. There seemed to be thousands of them. Poor kids, said Mike. It must be awful living in a hole like this. Smith said nothing. He was looking thoughtful. He glanced up at the grimy buildings on each side. On the lower floors one could see into dark, bare rooms. These were the star apartments of the tenement houses, for they opened onto the street and so got a little light in air. The imagination jibbed at the thought of the back rooms. I wonder who owns these places, said Smith. It seems to me that there is what you might call room for improvement. It wouldn't be a scaly idea to turn that cozy moment's search light we were talking about onto them. They walked on a few steps. Look here, said Smith, stopping. This place makes me sick. I'm going in to have a look around. I expect some muscular householder will present the intrusion and Buddhist out, but we'll risk it. Followed by Mike, he turned in at one of the doors. A group of men leaning against the opposite wall looked at them without curiosity. Probably they took them for reporters hunting for a story. Reporters were the only tolerably well-dressed visitors Pleasant Street ever entertained. It was almost pitch dark on the stairs. They had to feel their way up. Most of the doors were shut, but one on the second floor was a jar. Through the opening they had a glimpse of a number of women sitting around on boxes. The floor was covered with little heaps of linen. All the women were sewing. Mike, stumbling in the darkness, almost fell against the door. None of the women looked up at the noise. Time was evidently money in Pleasant Street. On the fourth floor there was an open door. The room was empty. It was a good representative of Pleasant Street's back room. The architect in this case had given reign to a passion for originality. He had constructed the room without a window of any sort whatsoever. There was a square opening in the door. Through this, it was to be presumed, the entire stock of air used by the occupants was supposed to come. They stumbled downstairs again and out into the street. By contrast with the conditions indoors, the street seemed spacious and breezy. This, said Smith as they walked on, is where cozy moments gets busy at a singularly early date. What are you going to do? asked Mike. I propose, Comrade Jackson, said Smith, if Comrade Windsor is agreeable, to make things as warm for the owner of this place as I jolly well know how. What he wants, of course, he proceeded in the tone of a family doctor prescribing for a patient, is disemboweling. I fancy, however, that a mockishly sentimental legislature will prevent our performing that national service. We must endeavour to do what we can by means of kindly criticism in the paper. And now, having settled that important point, let us try and get out of this place of wrath and find forth Avenue. CHAPTER VII. Visitors at the Office On the following morning, Mike had to leave with the team for Philadelphia. Smith came down to the ferry to see him off, and hung about moodily until the time of departure. It is saddening me to a great extent, Comrade Jackson, he said, this perpetual parting of the ways. When I think of the happy moments we have spent hand in hand across the seas, it fills me with a certain melancholy to have you flitting off in this manner without me. Yet there is another side to the picture. To me there is something singularly impressive in our unhesitating reply to the calls of duty. Your duty summons you to Philadelphia to knock the cover off the local bowling. Mine retains me here, to play at my part in the great work of making New York sit-up. By the time you return, with a sentry or two I trust in your bag, the good work should, I fancy, begetting something of a move on. I will complete the arrangements with regard to the flat. After leaving Pleasant Street they had found Fourth Avenue by a devious route, and had opened negotiations for a large flat near 30th Street. It was immediately above a saloon, which was something of a drawback, but the landlord had assured them that the voices of the revelers did not penetrate to it. When the ferryboat had borne a mic off across the river, Smith turned to stroll to the office of cozy moments. The day was fine, and on the whole despite Mike's desertion, he felt pleased with life. Smith was a nature which required a certain amount of stimulus in the way of gentle excitement, and it seemed to him that the conduct of the remodeled cozy moments might supply this. He liked Billy Windsor, and looked forward to a not unenjoyable time till Mike should return. The offices of cozy moments were in a large building in the street off Madison Avenue. They consisted of a sort of outer layer, where Pugsie Malone spent his time reading tales of life in the prairies, and heading off undesirable visitors. A small room which would have belonged to a stenographer if cozy moments had possessed one, and a larger room beyond, which was the editorial sanctum. As Smith passed through the front door, Pugsie Malone rose. Say, said Master Maloney. Say on, Comrade Maloney, said Smith. Dare in there! Who precisely? A whole bunch of them. Smith inspected Master Maloney through his eyeglass. Can you give me any particulars? He asked patiently. You are well-meaning but vague, Comrade Maloney. Who are in there? The whole bunch of them. There's Mr. Asher and the Brevin Philputz and a gazebo that calls himself Waterman in about sixty more of them. A faint smile appeared on Smith's face. And is Comrade Windsor in there, too, in the middle of them? Nope. Mr. Windsor is out to lunch. Comrade Windsor knows his business. Why did you let them in? Sure, they just butted in, said Master Maloney, complainingly. I was sitting here reading me a book when the voice of the guys blew in. Boy, says he, is the editor in. Nope, I says. I'll go in and wait, says he. Not in doing, says I. Nick's on to go in and act. I might as well save me Brett. Any buts, and he's in there now. When in about three minutes along comes another gazebo. Boy, says he, is the editor in. Nope, I says. I'll wait, he says, lighten out for the door. With that, I see the proposition's too fierce for me. I can't keep these big husky guys out if they's for button in. So when the rest of the bunch comes along, I don't try and give them to run down. I says, well, gents, I says. It's up to you. The editor ain't in. But if you want to join to get it wrong, push Trude into the inner room. I can't be bothered. And what more could you have said, agreed Smith approvingly. Tell me, Comrade Maloney, what was the general average aspect of these determined spirits? Huh? Did they seem to you to be gay, lighthearted? Did they carol snatches of song as they went? Or did they appear to be looking for someone with a hatchet? They was up and mad a whole bunch of them. As I suspected. But we must not repine, Comrade Maloney. These trifling countertoms are the penalties we pay for our high journalistic aims. I will interview these merchants. I fancy with the aid of the diplomatic smile and the honeyed word I may manage to pull through. It is as well, perhaps, that Comrade Windsor is out. The situation calls for the handling of a man with a delicate culture and nice tact. Comrade Windsor would probably have endeavored to clear the room with a chair. If he should arrive during the séance, Comrade Maloney, be so good as to inform him of the state of affairs, and tell him not to come in. Give him my compliments, and tell him to go out and watch the snow drops growing in Madison Square Garden. Sure, said Master Maloney. Then Smith, having smoothed the nap of his hat and flicked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve, walked to the door of the inner room and went in. End of Chapter 7 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse Chapter 8 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by P. G. Burea Chapter 8 The Honeyed Word Master Maloney's statement that about seen visitors had arrived in addition to Monsieur's Asher, watermen in the Reverend Philpots, proved to have been due to a great extent to a somewhat fervish imagination. There were only five men in the room. As Smith entered, every eye was turned upon him. To an outside spectator, he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressed Daniel introduced into a den of singularly irritable lions. Five pairs of eyes were smoldering with a long, nursed resentment. Five brows were corrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was the simple majesty of Smith's demeanor that for a moment there was dead silence. Not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped in thoughts to the editorial chair. Stillness brooded over the room as he carefully dusted that piece of furniture, and, having done so to his satisfaction, hitched up the knees of his trousers and sank gracefully into a sitting position. This accomplished, he looked up and started. He gazed round the room. Ha! I am observed, he had murmured. The words broke the spell. Instantly the five visitors burst simultaneously into the speech. Are you the acting editor of this paper? I wish to have a word with you, sir. Mr. Windsor, I presume? Pardon me. I should like a few moments' conversation. The start was good and even, but the gentleman who said, pardon me, necessarily finished first with the rest nowhere. Smith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gaze through his eyeglass. Are you Mr. Windsor, sir, may I ask? Enquired the favored one. The others paused for the reply. Alas, no, said Smith, with manly regret. Then who are you? I am Smith. There was a pause. Where is Mr. Windsor? He is, I fancy, champing about forty cents with a lunch at some neighbouring hostelry. When will he return? A non. But how much a non? I fear I cannot say. The visitors looked at each other. This is exceedingly annoying, said this man who had said pardon me. I came here for the express purpose of seeing Mr. Windsor. So did I, chimed in the rest. Same here, so did I. Smith bowed critiously. Conrad Windsor's loss is my gain. Is there anything I can do for you? Are you on the editorial staff of this paper? I am acting sub-editor. The work is not light, added Smith gratuitously. Sometimes the cry goes round. Can Smith get through it all? Will his strength support his unquenchable spirit? But I stagger on. I do not repine. Then maybe you can tell me what all this means? Said a small round gentleman who so far had done only chorus work. If it is in my power to do so, it shall be done, comrade. I have not the pleasure of your name. My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whose name you doubtless know. Correct me if I am wrong, said Smith, but I should say it also was Waterman. Llewela Granville, Waterman, sir, said the little man proudly. Smith removed his eyeglass, polished it, and replaced it in his eye. He felt he must run no risk of not seeing clearly the husband of one who, in his opinion, stood alone in literary circles as a purveyor of sheer bilge. My wife, continued the little man, producing an envelope and handing it to Smith, has received this extraordinary communication from a man signing himself as W. Windsor. We are both at a loss to make head or tail of it. Smith was reading the letter. It seems reasonably clear to me, he said. It is an outrage. My wife has been a contributor to this journal from its foundation. Her work has given every satisfaction to Mr. Wilberfloss. And now, without the slightest warning, comes this peremptory dismissal from W. Windsor. Who is W. Windsor? Where is Mr. Wilberfloss? The chorus birthed forth. It seemed that that was what they all wanted to know. Who was W. Windsor? Where was Mr. Wilberfloss? I am the reverend Edwin T. Philpots, sir, said a cadaver-sucking man, with pale blue eyes and a melancholy face. I have contributed moments of meditation to this journal for a very considerable period of time. I have read your page with the keenest interest, said Smith. I may be wrong, but it yours seems to me a work which the world will not willingly let die. The reverend Edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile. And yet, continued Smith, I gather that Comrade Windsor, on the other hand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease. It is these strange contradictions, these clashings of personal taste, which make up that which we call life. Here we have, on the one hand, a man with a face like a walnut, who had hitherto lurked almost unseen behind a stout person in a surged suit, bobbed into the open, and spoke his piece. Where is this fellow Windsor? W. Windsor. That's the man we want to see. I have been working for this paper without a break, except when I had the mumps, for four years, and I have reason to know that my page was as widely read and appreciated as any in New York, and now up comes this Windsor fellow, if you please, and tells me in so many words the paper's got no use for me. These are life's tragedies, remembered Smith. What's he mean by it? That's what I want to know, and that's what these gentlemen want to know. See here. I am addressing, said Smith. Asher's my name. Be Henderson, Asher. I write moments of mirth. A look, almost of excitement, came into Smith's face. Such a look as a visitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some great national monument, that he should be privileged to look upon the author of moments of mirth in the flesh, face to face, was almost too much. Comrade Asher, he said reverently, may I shake your hand? The other extended his hand with some suspicion. Your moments of mirth, said Smith, shaking it, have frequently reconciled me to the toothache. He reseated himself. Gentlemen, he said, this is a painful case. The circumstances, as you will readily admit when you have heard all, are peculiar. You have asked me where Mr. Wilberfloss is. I do not know. You don't know, exclaimed Mr. Waterman. I don't know. You don't know. They, said Smith, indicating the rest with the wave of a hand. Don't know. Nobody knows. His locality is as hard to ascertain as that of a black cat and a coal-seller on a moonless night. Shortly before I joined this journal, Mr. Wilberfloss, by his doctor's orders, started out on a holiday, leaving no address. No letters were to be forwarded. He was to enjoy complete rest. Where is he now? Who shall say? Possibly legging it down some rugged slope in the Rockies with two bears and a wild cat in earnest pursuit. Possibly in the midst of some Florida everglade picking noises like a piece of meat in order to ensnare crocodiles. Possibly in Canada baiting moose traps. We have no data. Silent consternation prevailed among the audience. Finally the Reverend Edwin T. Philpott was struck with an idea. Where is Mr. White? he asked. The point was well received. Yes, where is Mr. Benjamin White? chorus the rest. Smith shook his head. In Europe I cannot say more. The audience's consternation deepened. Then do you mean to say, demanded Mr. Asher, that this fellow Windsor's the boss here, that what he says goes? Smith bowed. With your customary clear-headedness, Comrade Asher, you have got home on the bullseye first pop. Comrade Windsor is indeed the boss. A man of intensely masterful character, he will brook no opposition. I am powerless to sway him. Suggestions from myself as to the conduct of the paper would infuriate him. He believes that radical changes are necessary in the program of cozy moments, and he means to put them through if it snows. Doubtless, he would gladly consider your work if it fitted in with his ideas. A snappy account of a glove fight, a spine-shaking word picture of a railway smash, or something on those lines, would be welcomed, but— I have never heard of such a thing, said Mr. Waterman indignantly. Smith sighed. Some time ago, he said, how long it seems. I remember saying to a young friend of mine, of the name of Spiller, Comrade Spiller never confused the unusual with the impossible. It is my guiding rule in life. It is unusual for the substitute editor of a weekly paper to do a Captain Kidd act, and take the entire command of the journal into his own account. But is it impossible? Alas, no. Comrade Windsor has done it. That is where you, Comrade Asher, and you gentlemen, have landed yourselves squarely in the broth. You have confused the unusual with the impossible. But what is to be done, cried Mr. Asher? I fear that there is nothing to be done, except wait. The present regime is but an experiment. It may be that when Comrade Wolberfloss, having dodged the bears and eluded the wildcat, returns to his post at the helm of this journal, he may decide not to continue on the lines presently mapped out. He should be back in about ten weeks. Ten weeks! I fancy that was to be the duration of his holiday. Till then, my advice to you gentlemen is to wait. You may rely on me to keep a watchful eye upon your interests. When your thoughts tend to take a gloomy turn, say to yourselves, All is well. Smith is keeping a watchful eye upon our interests. All the same I should like to see this, W. Windsor, said Mr. Asher. Smith shook his head. I shouldn't, he said. I speak in your best interests. Comrade Windsor is a man of the fiercest passions. He cannot brook interference. Were you to question the wisdom of his plans, there is no knowing what might not happen. He would be the first to regret any violent action, when once he had cooled off. But would that be any consolation to his victim? I think not. Of course, if you wish it, I could arrange a meeting. Mr. Asher said no. He thought it didn't matter. I guess I can wait, he said. That, said Smith approvingly, is the right spirit. Wait, that is the watch word. And now, he added rising, I wonder if a bit of lunch somewhere might not be a good thing. We have had an interesting but fatiguing little chat. Our tissues require restoring. If you gentlemen would care to join me. Ten minutes later, the company was seated in complete harmony round a table at the Knickerbocker. Smith, with the dignified bonomy of a senior of the old school, was ordering the wine, while B. Henderson Asher, brimming over with good humour, was relating to an attentive circle, an anecdote which should have appeared in his next installment of Moments of Murth. End of Chapter 8 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse. Full Steam Ahead When Smith returned to the office, he found Billy Windsor in the doorway, just parting from a thick set young man, who seemed to be expressing his gratitude to the editor for some good turn. He was shaking him warnly by the hand. Smith stood aside to let him pass. An old college at Chum, comrade Windsor, he asked. That was Kid Brady. The name is unfamiliar to me. Another contributor. He's from my part of the country, Wyoming. He wants to fight anyone in the world at a hundred and thirty-three pounds. We all have our hobbies. Comrade Brady appears to have selected a somewhat exciting one. He would find stamp collecting less exacting. It hasn't given him much excitement so far, poor chap, said Billy Windsor. He's in the championship class, and here he has been partying around New York for a month without being able to get a fight. It's always the way in this rotten east continued Billy, warming up as was his custom when discussing a case of impression and injustice. It's all graft here. You've got to let half a dozen brute-stip into every dollar you earn, or you don't get a chance. If the kid had a manager, he'd get all the fights he wanted, and the manager wouldn't get nearly all the money. I've told him that we will back him up. You have hit it, comrade Windsor, said Smith with enthusiasm. Cozy moments shall be comrade Brady's manager. We will give him a much needed boost up in our columns. A sporting section is what the paper requires more than anything. If things go on as they've started, what it will require still more would be a fighting editor. Pugsie tells me you had visitors while I was out. A few, said Smith, one of two very entertaining fellows, comrades Asher, Phil Potts, and others. I have just been giving them a bite of lunch at the Knickerbocker. Lunch! A most pleasant little lunch. We are now as brothers. I fear I have made you perhaps a shade unpopular with our late contributors. But these things must be. We must clench our teeth and face them manfully. If I were you, I think I should not drop in at the house of comrade Asher and the rest to take a potluck for some little time to come. In order to soothe the squad, I was compelled to curse you to some extent. Don't mind me. I think I may say that I didn't. Say, look here, you must charge up the price of that lunch at the office. Necessary expenses, you know. I could not dream of doing such a thing, comrade Windsor. The whole affair was a great treat to me. I have few pleasures. Comrade Asher alone was worth the money. I found his society intensely interesting. I have always believed in the Darwinian theory. Comrade Asher confirmed my views. They went into the inner office. Smith removed his hat and coat. Smith, the flannur of Fifth Avenue, ceases to exist. In his place, we find Smith the hard-headed sub-editor. Be so good as to indicate a job of work for me, comrade Windsor. I am chomping at my bit. Billy Windsor sat down and lit his pipe. What we want most, he said thoughtfully, is some big topic. That's the only way to get a paper going. Look at everybody's magazine. They didn't amount to a row of beans till Lawson started his frenzied finance articles. Directly they began, the whole country was squealing for copies. Everybody's put up their price from ten to fifteen cents, and now they lead the field. The country must squeal for cozy moments, said Smith firmly. I fancy I have a scheme which may not prove wholly scaly. Wandering yesterday with comrade Jackson in a search for Fourth Avenue, I happened upon a spot called Pleasant Street. Do you know it? Billy Windsor nodded. I went down there once or twice when I was a reporter. It's a beastly place. It is a singularly beastly place. We went into one of the houses. They're pretty bad. Who owns them? I don't know. Probably some millionaire. Those tenement houses are about as paying an investment as you can have. Hasn't anybody ever tried to do anything about them? Not as far as I know. It's pretty difficult to get at these fellows, you see. But they're fierce, aren't they, those houses? What, asked Smith, is the precise difficulty of getting at these merchants? Well, it's this way. There are all sorts of laws about the places, but anyone who wants can get around them as easy as falling off a log. The law says a tenement house is a building occupied by more than two families. Well, when there's a fuss, all a man has to do is to clear out all the families but two. Then, when the inspector fellow comes along and says, Let's say, Where's your running water on each floor? That's what the law says you've got to have, and here are these people having to go downstairs and out of doors to fetch their water supplies. The landlord simply replies, Nothing doing, this isn't a tenement house at all. There are only two families here. And when the fuss is blown over, back comes the rest of the crowd, and things go on the same as before. I see, said Smith, a very cheery scheme. Then, there's another thing. You can't get a hold of the man who's really responsible unless you're prepared to spend thousands ferreting out evidence. The land belongs in the first place to some corporation or other. They lease a double S.E., but when there's a fuss, they say they aren't responsible, it's up to the S.E., and he lies so low that you can't find out who he is. It's all just like the East. Everything in the East is as crooked as Pearl Street. You want a square deal, you've got to come out to Wyoming way. The main problem, then, said Smith, appears to be the discovery of the S.E. lad. Surely a powerful organ like Cozy Moments, with its vast ramifications, could bring off a thing like that? I doubt it. We'll try, anyway. There's no no one but what we may have luck. Precisely, said Smith, full steam ahead and trust to luck. The chances are that, if we go on long enough, we shall eventually arrive somewhere. After all, Columbus didn't know that America existed when he set out. All he knew was some highly interesting fact about an egg. What that was, I do not at the moment recall, but it bucked Columbus up like a tonic. It made him fizz ahead like a two-year-old. The facts which will nerve us to effort are two. In the first place, we know that there must be someone at the bottom of the business. Secondly, as there appears to be no law of libel whatsoever in this great and free country, we shall be enabled to hollip our slacks with a considerable absence of restraint. Sure, said Billy Windsor, which of us is going to write the first article? You may leave that to me, Comrade Windsor. I am no hardened old journalist I fear, but I have certain qualifications for the post. A young man once called at the office of a certain newspaper and asked for a job. Have you any special line, as the editor? Yes, said the bright lad. I am rather good at invective. Any special kind of invective? Cried the man at the top. No, replied our hero. Just general invective. Such is my own case, Comrade Windsor. I am a very fair purveyor of good general invective. And as my visit to Pleasant Street is of such recent date, I am tolerably full of my subject. Taking full advantage of the benevolent laws of this country governing libel, I fancy I will produce a screed which will make this anonymous lessy feel as if he had inadvertently seated himself upon a tin tack. Give me pen and paper, Comrade Windsor, instruct Comrade Maloney to suspend his whistling till such time as I am better able to listen to it, and I think we have got a success. CHAPTER X GOING SOME There once was an editor of a paper in the far west who was sitting at his desk, musing pleasantly of life, when a bullet crashed through the window and embedded itself in the wall at the back of his head. A happy smile lit up the editor's face. He said incomplacently, I knew that personal column of ours was going to be a success. What the bullet was to the far west editor, the visit of Mr. Francis Parker to the offices of Cozy Moments was, to Billy Windsor. It occurred in the third week of the new regime of the paper. Cozy Moments, under its new management, had bounded ahead like a motor car when the throttle is opened. Incessant work had been the order of the day. Billy Windsor's hair had become more to shovel than ever, and even Smith had at Moments lost a certain amount of his dignified calm. Sandwiched in between the painful case of Kid Brady and the matter of the tenements, which formed the star items of the paper's contents, was a mass of bright reading dealing with the events of the day. Billy Windsor's newspaper friends had turned in some fine snappy stuff in their best yellow journal manner, relating to the more stirring happenings in the city. Smith, who had constituted himself guardian of the literary and dramatic interests of the paper, had employed his gift of general invective to considerable effect, as was shown by a conversation between Master Maloney and a visitor one morning, heard through the open door. I wish to see the editor of this paper, said the visitor. Edited not in, said Master Maloney untruthfully. Then when he returns, I wish you to give him a message. Sure. I am Aubrey Bodkin of the National Theatre. Give him my compliments, and tell him that Mr. Bodkin does not lightly forget. An unsolicited testimonial which caused Smith the keenest satisfaction. The section of the paper devoted to Kid Brady was attractive to all those with sporting blood in them. Each week there appeared in the same place, on the same page, a portrait of the kid, looking moody and important, in an attitude of self-defense, and under the portrait the legend, Jimmy Garvin must meet this boy. Jimmy was the present holder of the lightweight title. He had won it a year before, and since then had confined himself to smoking cigars as long as walking sticks, and appearing nightly as the star in a music hall sketch entitled A Fight for Honor. His reminiscences were appearing weekly in a Sunday paper. It was this that gave Smith the idea of publishing Kid Brady's autobiography in Cozy Moments, an idea which made the kid his devoted inherent from then on. Like most pugilists, the kid had a passion for bursting into print, and his life had been said and up to the present by the refusal of the press to publish his reminiscences. To appear in print is the fighter's accolade. It signifies that he has arrived. Smith extended the hospitality of page four of Cozy Moments to Kid Brady, and the latter leapt at the chance. He was grateful to Smith for not editing his contributions. Other pugilists, contributing to other papers, groaned under the supervision of a member of the staff who cut out their best passages and altered the rest into Addisonian English. The readers of Cozy Moments got Kid Brady raw. Comrade Brady, said Smith the Billy, has a singularly pure and pleasing style. It is bound to appeal powerfully to the many-headed. Listen to this bit. Our hero is fighting battling Jack Benson in that eminent artist's native town of Louisville, and the citizens have given their native son the approving hand, while receiving Comrade Brady with a chilly silence. Here is the kid on the subject. I looked round that house, and I seen I hadn't a friend in it, and then the gong goes, and I says to myself how I has one friend, my poor old mother way out in Wyoming, and I goes in, and I mixes it, and then I see Benson losing his goat, so I upset with an awful half-scissor hook to the plexus, and in the next round I see Benson has a chunky yellow, and I gets in with a haymaker, and I picks up another sleep producer from the floor, and I hands it him, and he takes the count, all right. Crisp, lucid, and to the point. That is what the public wants. If this does not bring Comrade Garbant up to the scratch, nothing will. But the feature of the paper was the Tenement Series. It was late summer now, and there was nothing much going on in New York. The public was consequently free to take notice. The sale of cozy moments proceeded briskly. As Smith had predicted, the change of policy had the effect of improving the sales to a marked extent. Letters of complaint from old subscribers poured into the office daily. But, as Billy Windsor complacently remarked, they had paid their subscription, so that the money was safe whether they read the paper or not. And meanwhile a large new public had sprung up and was growing every week. Advertisements came trooping in. Cozy Moments, in short, was passing through an era of prosperity undreamed of in its history. Young blood, said Smith nonchalantly. Young blood. That is the secret. A paper must keep up to date, or it falls behind the competitors in the race. Comrade Bloorfloss's methods were possibly sound, but too limited and archaic. They lacked ginger. We, of the younger generation, have our fingers more firmly on the public pulse. We read off the public's unspoken wishes, as if by intuition. We know the game from A to Z. At this moment, Master Maloney entered, bearing in his hand a card. Francis Parker, said Billy, taking it, don't know him. Nor I, said Smith. We make new friends daily. He's a guy with a tall-shaped hat, volunteered Master Maloney, and he's wearing a dude's suit and shiny shoes. Comrade Parker, said Smith approvingly, has evidently not been blind to the importance of a visit to Cozy Moments. He has dressed himself in his best. He has felt, rightly, that this is no occasion for the old straw hat and the baggy flannels. I would not have it otherwise. It is the right spirit. Shall we give him audience, Comrade Windsor? I wonder what he wants. That, said Smith, we shall ascertain more clearly after a personal interview. Comrade Maloney showed the gentleman in. We can give him three and a quarter minutes. Pugsy withdrew. Mr. Francis Parker proved to be a man who might have been any age between 25 and 35. He had a smooth, clean-shaven face and a cat-like way of moving. As Pugsy had stated in effect, he wore a tailcoat, trousers with a crease which brought a smile of kindly approval to Smith's face, and patent leather boots of pronounced shininess. Gloves and a tall hat, which he carried, completed an impressive picture. He moved softly into the room. I wished to see the editor. Smith waved a hand towards Billy. The treat has not been denied you, he said. Before you is Comrade Windsor, the Wyoming crack-a-jack. He is our editor. I am myself. I am Smith. Though but a subordinate may also claim the title in a measure. Technically, I am but a sub-editor, but such is the mutual esteem in which Comrade Wilberfloss and I hold each other, that we may practically be said to be inseparable. We have no secrets from each other. You may address us both impartially. Will you sit for a space? He pushed a chair towards the visitor, who seated himself with the care inspired by a perfect trouser crease. There was a momentary silence while he selected a spot on the table on which to place his hat. The style of the paper has changed greatly, has it not, during the past few weeks, he said. I have never been, shall I say, a constant reader of cozy moments, and I may be wrong, but is not its interest in current affairs a recent development? You are very right, responded Smith. Comrade Windsor, a man of alert and restless temperament, felt that a change was essential if cozy moments was to lead public thought. Comrade Wilberfloss's methods were good in their way. I have no quarrel with Comrade Wilberfloss, but he did not lead public thought. He catered exclusively for children with water on the brain and men and women with solid ivory skulls. Comrade Windsor, with a broader view, feels that there are other and larger publics. He refuses to contend himself with ladling out a weekly dole of mental predigested breakfast food. He provides meat. He— Then excuse me, said Mr. Parker, turning to Billy. You, I take it, are responsible for this very vigorous attack on the Tenement House owners? You can take it, I am, said Billy, Smith interposed. We are both responsible, Comrade Parker. If any husky guy, as I fancy Master Maloney would phrase it, is anxious to aim a swift kick at the man behind those articles, he must distribute it evenly between Comrade Windsor and myself. I see. Mr. Parker paused. They are—er—very outspoken articles, he added. Warm stuff, agreed Smith, distinctly warm stuff. May I speak frankly, said Mr. Parker? Assuredly, Comrade Parker, there must be no secrets, no restraint between us. We would not have you go away and say to yourself, did I make my meaning clear? Was I too elusive? Say on. I am speaking in your breast-interest. Who would doubt it, Comrade Parker? Nothing has buoyed us up more strongly during the hours of doubt through which we have passed than the knowledge that you wish us well. Billy Windsor suddenly became militant. There was a feline smoothness about the visitor which had been jarring upon it ever since he first spoke. Billy was of the plains, the home of blunt speech, where you looked your man in the eye and said it quick. Mr. Parker was too bland for human consumption. He offended Billy's honest soul. See here! cried he, leaning forward. What's it all about? Let's have it. If you've got anything to say about those articles, say it right out. Never mind our best interests, we can look after them. Let's have what's worrying you. Smith waved deprecating hand. Do not let us be abrupt on this happy occasion. To me it is enough simply to sit and chat with Comrade Parker, irrespective of the trend of his conversation. Still, as time is money, and this is our busy day, possibly it might be as well, sir, if you won't burden yourself as soon as convenient. Have you come to point out some flaw in those articles? Do they fall short in any way of your standard for such work? Mr. Parker's smooth face did not change its expression, but he came to the point. I should not go on with them if I were you, he said. Why? Demedded Billy. There are reasons why you should not, said Mr. Parker. And there are reasons why we should. Less powerful ones. Their precedence from Billy annoys not describable in words. It was partly a snort, partly a growl. It resembled more than anything else, the preliminary sniffing snarl a bulldog admits before he joins battle. Billy's cowboy blood was up. He was rapidly approaching the state of mind in which the men of the planes, finding speech unequal to the expression of their thoughts, breach for their guns. Smith intervened. We do not completely gather your meaning, Comrade Parker. I fear we must ask you to hand it to us with still more breezy frankness. Do you speak from purely friendly motives? Are you advising us to discontinue the articles merely because you fear that they will damage our literary reputation? Or are there other reasons why you feel they should cease? Do you speak solely as a literary connoisseur? Is it the style or the subject matter of which you disapprove? Mr. Parker leaned forward. The gentleman whom I represent. Then this is no matter of your own personal taste. You are an emissary. These articles are causing a certain inconvenience to the gentleman whom I represent, or rather he feels that, if continued, they may do so. You mean, broken Billy explosively, that if we kicked up enough fuss to make somebody start a commission to inquire into this rotten business, your friend, who owns the private Hades we're trying to get improved, will have to get busy and lose some of his money by Mahina House's fit to live in? Is that it? It is not so much the money, Mr. Windsor, though, of course, that expense would be considerable. My employer is a wealthy man. I bet he is, said Billy disgustedly. I have no doubt he makes a mighty good pile out of Pleasant Street. It is not so much the money, repeated Mr. Parker, as the publicity involved. I speak quite frankly. There are reasons why my employer would prefer not to come before the public just now as the owner of the Pleasant Street property. I need not go into those reasons. It is sufficient to say that they are strong ones. Well, he knows what to do, I guess. The moment he starts in to make those houses decent, the articles stop. It's up to him. Smith nodded. Comrade Windsor is correct. He has hit the mark and rung the bell. No conscientious judge would withhold from Comrade Windsor a cigar or coconut according as his private preference might dictate. That is the matter in a nutshell. Remove the reason for those very scholarly articles, and they cease. Mr. Parker shook his head. I fear that is not feasible. The expense of reconstructing the houses makes that impossible. Then there is no use in talking, said Billy. The articles will go on. Mr. Parker coughed, a tenetive cough, suggesting that the situation was now about to enter upon a more delicate phase. Billy and Smith waited for him to begin. From their point of view the discussion was over. If it was to be reopened on fresh lines, it was for their visitor to affect that reopening. Now I'm going to be frank, gentlemen, said he, as you should say. We are all friends here, let us be hearty. I'm going to put my cards on the table and see if we can't fix something up. Now see here, we don't want any unpleasantness. You aren't in this business for your health, eh? You've got your living to make just like everybody else, I guess. We'll see here, this is how it stands. To a certain extent, I don't mind admitting, seeing that we're being frank with one another. You two gentlemen have got us, that's to say my employer, in a clef stick. Frankly, those articles are beginning to attract attention, and if they go on, there's going to be a lot of inconvenience for my employer. That's clear, I reckon. Well now, here's a square proposition. How much do you want to stop those articles? That's straight, I've been frank with you and I want you to be frank with me. What's your figure? Name it, and if it's not too high, I guess we need a quarrel. He looked expectantly at Billy. Billy's eyes were bulging. He struggled for speech. He has gotten as far as, say, when Smith interrupted him. Smith, gazing sadly at Mr. Parker through his monocle, spoke quietly with the restrained dignity of some old Roman senator dealing with the enemies of the Republic. Comrade Parker, he said, I fear that you have allowed constant communication with the consciousness commercialism of this worldly city to undermine your moral sense. It is useless to dangle rich bribes before our eyes. Cozy moments cannot be muzzled. You doubtless mean well, according to your, if I may say so, somewhat murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at ten cents weekly. From the hills of Maine to the everglades of Florida, from Sandy Hook to San Francisco, from Portland, Oregon to Mellon's Squashville, Tennessee, one sentence is in every man's mouth. And what is that sentence? I give you three guesses. You give it up? It is this. Cozy moments cannot be muzzled. Mr. Parker rose. There's nothing more to be done, then, he said. Nothing, agreed Smith, except to make a noise like a hoop and roll away. And do it quick, yelled Billy, exploding like a firecracker. Smith bowed. Speed, he admitted, would be no bad thing. Frankly, if I may borrow the expression, your square proposition has wounded us. I am a man of powerful self-restraint, one of those strong, silent men, and I can curb my emotions. But I fear that Comrade Windsor's generous temperament may at any moment prompt him to start throwing ink pots. And in Wyoming, his deadly aim with the ink pot won him among the admiring cowboys the sobriquette of crack shot Cuthbert. As man to man, Comrade Parker, I should advise you to bound swiftly away. I'm going, said Mr. Parker, picking up his hat, and I'll give you a piece of advice, too. Those articles are going to be stopped, and if you've any sense between you, you'll stop them yourselves before you get hurt. That's all I've got to say, and that goes. He went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that added emphasis to his words. To man of nicely poised nervous organization, such as ourselves, Comrade Windsor, said Smith, smoothing his waistcoat thoughtfully, these scenes are acutely painful. We wince before them. Our ganglions quiver like cinematographs. Gradually recovering command of ourselves, we review the situation. Did our visitors' final remarks convey anything definite to you? Were they the mere casual bandinage of a parting guest, or was there something solid behind them? Billy Windsor was looking serious. I guess he meant it all right. He's evidently working for somebody pretty big, and that sort of man would have pull with all kinds of thugs. We shall have to watch out. Now that they find that we can't be bought, they'll try the other way. They mean business, sure enough, but by George I'll let him. We're up against a big thing, and I'm going to see it through if they put every gang in New York onto us. Precisely, Comrade Windsor. Cozy moments as I have had occasion to observe before cannot be muzzled. That's right, said Billy Windsor. And, he added, with the contented look, the far west editor must have worn as the bullet came through the window. We must have got him scared, or they wouldn't have shown their hand that way. I guess we're making a hit. Cozy moments is going some now. End of Chapter 10 of Smith Journalist by P.G. Wodehouse. Chapter 11 of Smith Journalist by P.G. Wodehouse. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by P.G. Borea. Chapter 11 The Man at the Aster The duties of Master Pugsie Maloney at the offices of Cozy Moments were not heavy, and he was accustomed to occupy his large store of leisure by reading narratives dealing with life and the prairies, which he acquired at a neighbouring shop at cut rates in consideration of their being shopsoiled. It was while he was engrossed in one of these, on the morning following the visit of Mr. Parker, that the seedy-looking man made his appearance. He walked in from the street and stood before Master Maloney. Hey, kid, he said. Pugsie looked up with some hauteur. He presented being addressed as kid by perfect strangers. Edirin Tommy inquired the man. Pugsie by this time had taken a thorough dislike to him. To be called kid was bad. The subtle insult of Tommy was still worse. Nope, he said curtly, fixing his eyes again on his book. A movement on the part of the visitor attracted his attention. The seedy man was making for the door of the inner room. Pugsie instantly ceased to be the student and became the man of action. He sprang from his seat and wriggled in between the man and the door. You skint but in there, he said authoritatively. Chase yourself. The man eyed him with displeasure. Fresh kid, he observed disapprovingly. Fade away, urged Master Maloney. The visitor's reply was to extend a hand and grasp Pugsie's left ear between a long finger and thumb. Since time began, small boys in every country have had but one answer for this action. Pugsie made it. He emitted a piercing squeal in which pain, fear, and resentment strove for supremacy. The noise penetrated into the editorial sanctum, losing only a small part of its strength on the way. Smith, who was working on a review of a book of poetry, looked up with patient sadness. If Conrad Maloney, he said, is going to take up singing as well as whistling, I fear this journal must put up its shutters. Concentrated thought will be out of the question. A second squeal rent the air. Billy Windsor jumped up. Somebody must be hurt in the kid, he exclaimed. He hurried to the door and flung it open. Smith followed at a more leisurely pace. The seedy man caught in the act, released Master Maloney, who stood rubbing his ear with resentment written on every feature. On such occasions as this, Billy was a man of few words. He made a dive for the seedy man. But the latter, who during the preceding moment had been eyeing the two editors, as if he were committing their appearance to memory, sprang back and was off down the stairs with the agility of a marathon runner. He blows in, said Master Maloney aggrieved, and asks as the editor there. I tells him no, because you says you wasn't, and he nips me by the ear when I get busy trying to stop him getting true. Comrade Maloney, said Smith, you are a martyr. What would Horatius have done if someone had nipped him by the ear when he was holding the bridge? The story does not consider the possibility, yet it might have made all the difference. Did the gentleman state his business? Nope, just trade it, but true. Another of these strong, silent men, the world is full of us. These are the perils of the journalistic life. You will be safer and happier when you are rounding up cows on your Mustang. I wonder what he wanted, said Billy, when they were back again in the inner room. Who can say Comrade Windsor possibly are autographs, possibly five minutes chat on general subjects? I don't like the look of him, said Billy, whereas what Comrade Maloney ejected to was the feel of him. In what respect did his look jar upon you? His clothes were poorly cut, but such things I know leave you unmoved. It seems to me, said Billy thoughtfully, as if he came just to get a side of us. And he caught it. Ah, Providence is good to the poor. Who's ever behind those tournaments isn't going to stick at any odd trifle. We must watch out. That man was probably sent to Marcus down for one of the gangs. Now they'll know what we look like and they can get after us. These are the drawbacks to being public men, Comrade Windsor. We must spare them manfully without wincing. Billy turned again to his work. I'm not going to wince, he said, so as you could notice it with a microscope. What I'm going to do is buy a good big stick, and I'd advise you to do the same. It was by Smith's suggestion that the editorial staff of Cozy Moments dined that night in the roof garden at the top of the Aster hotel. The tired brain, he said, needs to recuperate. To feed on such a night as this in some low-down hostelry on the level of the street, with German waiters breathing heavily down the back of one's neck and two fiddles in a piano whacking out beautiful eyes about three feet from one's timpani, would be false economy. Here, found by cool breezes and surrounded by fair women and brave men, one may do a bit of tissue restoring. Moreover, there was little danger up here of being slugged by our moth-eaten acquaintance of this morning. A man with trousers like his would not be allowed in. We shall probably find him waiting for us at the main entrance with a sandbag when we leave, but till then he turned with a gentle's grace to his soup. It was a warm night, and the roof garden was full. From where they sat, they could see the million twinkling lights of the city. Towards the end of the meal, Smith's gaze concentrated itself on the advertisement of a certain brand of ginger ale in Times Square. It is a mass of electric light arranged in the shape of a great bottle, and at regular intervals, there proceeded from the bottle's mouth flashes of flame representing ginger ale. The thing began to exercise a hypnotic effect on Smith. He came to himself for the start to find Billy Windsor in a conversation with the waiter. Yes, my name is Windsor, Billy was saying. The waiter bowed and retired to one of the tables where a young man in evening clothes was seated. Smith recollected having seen a solitary diner looking in their direction once or twice during dinner, but the fact had not impressed him. What is happening, Comrade Windsor? he inquired. I was musing with a certain tenseness at the moment, and the rush of events has left me behind. Man at that table wanted to know if my name was Windsor, said Billy. Ah! said Smith, interested. And was it? Here he comes. I wonder what he wants. I don't know the man from Adam. This stranger was threading his way between the tables. Can I have a word with you, Mr. Windsor? he said. Billy looked at him curiously. Recent events had made him wary of strangers. Won't you sit down? he said. A waiter was bringing a chair the young man seated himself. By the way, added Billy, my friend, Mr. Smith, please to meet you, said the other. I don't know your name, Billy hesitated. Never mind about my name, said the stranger. It won't be needed. Is Mr. Smith on your paper? excuse my asking. Smith bowed. That's all right, then I can go ahead. He bent forward. Neither of you gentlemen are hard of hearing, eh? In the old prairie days, said Smith, Comrade Windsor was known to the Indians as Bula Banagash, which, as you doubtless know, signifies big chief who could hear a fly clear its throat. I, too, could hear as well as the next man. Why? That's all right, then. I don't want to have to shout it. There are some things it's better not to yell. He turned to Billy, who had been looking at him all the while with a combination of interest and suspicion. The man might or might not be friendly. In the meantime, there was no harm in being on one's guard. Billy's experience as a cub reporter had given him the knowledge that is only given in its entirety to police and newspaper men. That there are two New Yorks. One is a modern, well-policed city, through which one may walk from end to end without encountering adventure. The other is a city as full of sinister intrigue, of whisperings and conspiracies, of battle, murder, and sudden death in dark byways, as any town of medieval Italy. Given certain conditions, anything may happen to anyone in New York. And Billy realized that these conditions now prevailed in his own case. He had come into conflict with New York's underworld. Circumstances had placed him below the surface, where only his wits could help him. It's about that tenement business, said the stranger. Billy bristled. Well, what about it? he demanded, truculently. This stranger raised a long and curiously delicately shaped hand. Don't bite at me, he said. This isn't my funeral. I've got no kit come, and I'm a friend. Yet you don't tell us your name. Never mind my name. If you were in my line of business, you wouldn't be so darned stuck on this name thing. Call me Smith, if you like. You could select no nobler pseudonym, said Smith cordially. Eh? Oh, I see. Well, make it brown, then. Anything you please. It don't signify. See here, let's get back. About this tenement thing. You understand certain parties have gutted in against you. A charming conversationalist, when Comrade Parker hinted at something of the sort, said Smith, in a recent interview. Cozy moments, however, cannot be muzzled. Well, said Billy, you're up against a big proposition. We can look after ourselves. Come, you'll need to. The man behind is a big bug. Billy leaned forward eagerly. Who is he? The other shrugged his shoulders. I don't know. You wouldn't expect a man like that to give himself away. Then how do you know he's a big bug? Precisely, said Smith. On what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman's bug-hood? The stranger let a cigar. By the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you done in. Billy's eyes snapped. Oh, he said, and which gang has he given the job to? I wish I could tell you, he, his agent, that is, came to Bat Jarvis. The cat expert, said Smith, a man of singularly winsome personality. Bat turned the job down. Why was that, inquired Billy? He said he needed the money as much as the next man, but when he found out who he was supposed to lay for, he gave his job the frozen face. Said you were a friend of his, and none of his fellows were going to put a finger on you. I don't know what you've been doing to Bat, but he's certainly willy the long-lost brother with you. A powerful argument in favor of kindness to animals, said Smith. Comrade Windsor came into possession of one of Comrade Jarvis's celebrated stud of cats. What did he do? Instead of having the animal made into a nourishing soup, he restored it to its bereaved owner. Observe this sequel. He is now as a prized tortoise shell to Comrade Jarvis. So Bat wouldn't stand for it, said Billy. Not on his life. Turn it down without a blink, and he sent me along to find you and tell you so. We are much obliged to Comrade Jarvis, said Smith. He told me to tell you to watch out, because another gang is dead sure to take on the job, but he said you were to know he wasn't mixed up in it. He also said that any time you were in bad, he'd do his best for you. He certainly made the biggest kind of hit with Bat. I haven't seen him so worked up over a thing in years. Well, that's all I reckon. Guess I'll be pushing along. I've got a date to keep. Glad to have met you. Glad to have met you, Mr. Smith. Pardon me. Do you have an insect on your coat? He flicked at Smith's coat with a quick movement. Smith thanked him gravely. Good night, included the stranger moving off. For a few moments after he had gone, Smith and Billy set smoking in silence. They had plenty to think about. How's the time going? asked Billy at length. Smith felt for his watch and looked at Billy with some sadness. I am sorry to say, Comrade Winter. Hello? said Billy. Here's that man coming back again. The stranger came up to their table wearing a light overcoat over his dress clothes. From the pocket of this he produced a gold watch. Force a habit, he said apologetically, handing it to Smith. You'll pardon me. Good night, gentlemen, again. CHAPTER XII. A RED TAXI METER. THE ASTRA HOTEL FACES ON TO TIME SQUARE. A few paces to the right of the main entrance, the Times building towers to the sky and at the foot of this the stream of traffic breaks forming two channels. To the right of the building is Seventh Avenue, quiet, dark, and dull. To the left is Broadway, the great whiteway, the longest, straightest, brightest, wickedest street in the world. Smith and Billy, having left the Aster, started to walk down Broadway to Billy's lodgings in Fourteenth Street. The usual crowd was drifting slowly up and down the glare of the white lights. They had reached Harold Square when a voice behind them explained, Why, it's Mr. Windsor. They wheeled around. A flashly dressed man was standing with an outstretched hand. I saw you come out of the Aster, he said cheerfully. I said to myself, I know that man. Darned if I could put a name to you, though, so I just followed you along, and right here it came to me. It did, did it, said Billy politely. It did, sir. I've never said eyes on you before, but I've seen so many photographs of you. I reckon we're old friends. I know your father quite well, Mr. Windsor. He showed me the photographs. You may have heard him speak of me. Jack Lake, how is the old man? Seen him lately? Not for some time. He was well when last he wrote. Good for him, he would be. Tough as a blanket, Joe Windsor. We always call them Joe. You'd have known him down in Missouri, of course, said Billy. That's right in Missouri. We were side partners for years. Now see here, Mr. Windsor, it's early yet. Won't you and your friend come along with me and have a smoke in a chat? I live right here in Thirty-third Street. I'd be right glad for you to come. I don't doubt it, said Billy, but I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us. In a hurry are you? Not in the least. Then come right along. No thanks. Say, why not? It's only a step. Because we don't want to. Good night. He turned and started to walk away. The other stood for a moment staring, then crossed the road. Smith broke the silence. Correct me if I am wrong, Comrade Windsor, he said tentatively, but were you not a trifle, shall we say, abrupt with the old family friend? Billy Windsor laughed. If my father's name was Joseph, he said, instead of being William the same as mine, and if he'd ever been in Missouri in his life, which he hasn't, and if I'd been photographed since I was a kid, which I haven't been, I might have gone along. As it was, I thought it better not to. These are deep waters, Comrade Windsor. Do you mean to intimate? If they can't do any better than that, we shan't have much to worry us. What do they take us for, I wonder, farmers? Playing off a comic supplement bluffed like that on us? There was honest indignation in Billy's voice. You think, then, that if we had accepted Comrade Windsor's invitation and got along for a smoke in a chat, the chat would not have been of the pleasantest nature. We should have been put out of business. I have heard so much, said Smith thoughtfully, of the lavish hospitality of the American. Taxi, sir? A red taximeter cab was crawling down the road at their side. Billy shook his head. Not that a taxi would be an unsound scheme, said Smith. Not that particular one, if you don't mind. Something about it that offends your aesthetic taste, queried Smith, something about it makes my aesthetic taste kick like a mule, said Billy. Ah, we highly strung literary men do have these curious prejudices. We cannot help it. We are the slaves of our temperaments. Let us walk them. After all, the night is fine, and we are young and strong. They had reached 23rd Street when Billy stopped. I don't know about walking, he said. Suppose we take the elevated. Anything you wish, Comrade Windsor, I am in your hands. They cut across into Sixth Avenue and walked up the stairs to the station of the elevated railway. A train was just coming in. Has it escaped your notice, Comrade Windsor, said Smith after a pause, that so far from speeding to your lodgings we are going in precisely the opposite direction? We are in an uptown train. I noticed it, said Billy briefly. Are we going anywhere in particular? This train goes as far as 110th Street. We'll go up to there, and then, and then we'll come back. And after that, I suppose, we shall make a trip to Philadelphia or Chicago or somewhere? Well, well, I am in your hands, Comrade Windsor. The night is young. Take me where you will. We are two young men out for breakfast dissipation. By all means, let us have it. At 110th Street, they left the train, went down the stairs, and crossed the street. Halfway across, Billy stopped. What's now, Comrade Windsor, inquired Smith patiently, have you thought of some new form of entertainment? Billy was making for a spot some few yards down the road. Looking in that direction, Smith saw his objective. In the shout of the elevator, there was standing a taxi meter cab. Taxi, sir, said the driver as they approached. We are giving you a great deal of trouble, said Billy. You must be losing money over this job. All this while, you might be getting fares downtown. These meetings, however, urge Smith are very pleasant. I can save you worrying, said Billy. My address is 84 East 14th Street. We're going back there now. Search me, said the driver. I don't know what you're talking about. I thought, perhaps you did, replied Billy. Good night. These things are very disturbing, said Smith, when they were in the train. Dignity is impossible when one is compelled to be the hunted fawn. When did you begin to suspect that Yonder Merchant was doing the sleuth hound act? When I saw him in Broadway having a heart-to-heart talk with our friend from Missouri. He must be something of an expert at the game to have kept on our track. Not in your life. It's as easy as falling off a log. There are only certain places where you can get off an elevated train. All he'd got to do was get there before the train and wait. I didn't expect to dodge him by taking the elevator. I just wanted to make certain of his game. The train pulled up at the 14th Street Station. In the roadway at the foot of the opposite staircase was a red taxiometer cab. End of Chapter 12 of Smith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse