Psmith, Journalist

by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse


PREFACE


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 a 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 definitely commercial
lines at so many dollars per murder. The "gangs" of New York exist
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 "Gyp 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.

P. G. WODEHOUSE
New York, 1915


CHAPTER I

"COSY MOMENTS"

The man in the street would not have known it, but a great crisis
was imminent in New York journalism.

Everything seemed much as usual in the city. The cars ran blithely
on Broadway. Newsboys shouted "Wux-try!" into the ears of nervous
pedestrians with their usual Caruso-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. Nevertheless, the crisis was at hand. Mr. J. Fillken
Wilberfloss, editor-in-chief of _Cosy 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 Esquimau
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 Esquimaux for Esquimaux. Everybody reads in
New York, and reads all the time. The New Yorker peruses his
favourite paper while he is being jammed into a crowded compartment
on the subway or leaping like an antelope into a moving Street car.

There was thus a public for _Cosy Moments_. _Cosy Moments_, as its
name (an inspiration of Mr. Wilberfloss's own) is designed to
imply, is 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 bed-time. 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 as generous a size as
heretofore, and there is no tendency on the part of editors to
scamp the details of the last murder-case.

Nevertheless, _Cosy Moments_ thrives. It has its public.

Its contents are mildly interesting, if you like that sort of
thing. There is a "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
(aged six), and other works of rising young authors. There is a
"Moments of Meditation" page, conducted by the Reverend Edwin T.
Philpotts; a "Moments Among the Masters" page, consisting of
assorted chunks looted from the literature of the past, when
foreheads were bulgy and thoughts profound, by Mr. Wilberfloss
himself; one or two other pages; a short story; answers to
correspondents on domestic matters; and a "Moments of Mirth" 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 _Cosy 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 _Cosy Moments_
had passed into the hands of Mr. Wilberfloss. Nor had he proved
unworthy of the trust or unequal to the duties. In that year _Cosy
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. Work of that sort carries
its penalties with it. Success means absorption, and absorption
spells softening of the brain.

Whether it was the strain of digging into the literature of the
past every week, or the effort of reading B. Henderson Asher's
"Moments of Mirth" is uncertain. At any rate, his duties, combined
with the heat of a New York summer, had sapped Mr. Wilberfloss's
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
than 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-seeing man who went down to first causes, had
absolutely declined to consent to Mr. Wilberfloss's suggestion that
he should keep in touch with the paper during his vacation. He was
adamant. He had seen copies of _Cosy Moments_ once or twice, and he
refused to permit a man in the editor's state of health to come in
contact with Luella Granville Waterman's "Moments in the Nursery"
and B. Henderson Asher's "Moments of Mirth." 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'm 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 was now listening moodily to the last harangue of
the series, with the air of one whose heart is not in the subject.
Billy Windsor was a tall, wiry, loose-jointed young man, with
unkempt hair and the general demeanour of a caged eagle. Looking
at him, one could picture him astride of a bronco, rounding up
cattle, or cooking his dinner at a camp-fire. Somehow he did not
seem to fit into the _Cosy Moments_ atmosphere.

"Well, I think that that is all, Mr. Windsor," chirruped the
editor. He was a little man with a long neck and large _pince-nez_,
and he always chirruped. "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 is 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 Burdett Parslow
is a little inclined - I may have mentioned this before - "

"You did," said the sub-editor.

Mr. Wilberfloss chirruped on, unchecked.

"A little inclined to be late with her 'Moments with Budding
Girlhood'. If this should happen while I am away, just write her a
letter, quite a pleasant letter, you understand, pointing out 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 sensible woman, and she will
understand, I am sure, if you point it out to her."

The sub-editor nodded.

"And there is just one other thing. I wish you would correct a
slight tendency I have noticed lately in Mr. Asher to be just a
trifle - well, not precisely _risky_, but perhaps a shade _broad_
in his humour."

"His what?" said Billy Windsor.

"Mr. Asher is a very sensible man, and he will be the first to
acknowledge that his sense of humour has led him just a little
beyond the bounds. You understand? Well, that is all, I think. Now
I must really be going, or I shall miss my train. Good-bye, Mr.
Windsor."

"Good-bye," 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 scowl
resumed his task of reading the proofs of Luella Granville
Waterman's "Moments in the Nursery."


CHAPTER II

BILLY WINDSOR

Billy Windsor had started life twenty-five years before this story
opens on his father's ranch in Wyoming. From there he had gone to a
local paper of the type whose Society column consists of such items
as "Pawnee 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 free-lance. 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 favoured 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 _Cosy 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 _Cosy Moments_ took up his
time so completely. He had no chance of attracting the notice of
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 Pugsy Maloney, the office-boy, bearing a struggling
cat.

"Say!" said Pugsy.

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 he were seeing it for the first
time.

"It's a kitty what I got in de street," he said.

"Don't hurt the poor brute. Put her down."

Master Maloney obediently dropped the cat, which sprang nimbly on
to an upper shelf of the book-case.

"I wasn't hoitin' her," he said, without emotion. "Dere was two
fellers in de street sickin' a dawg on to her. An' I comes up an'
says, 'G'wan! What do youse t'ink you're doin', fussin' de poor
dumb animal?' An' one of de guys, he says, 'G'wan! Who do youse
t'ink youse is?' An' I says, 'I'm de guy what's goin' to swat youse
one on de coco if youse don't quit fussin' de poor dumb animal.' So
wit dat he makes a break at swattin' me one, but I swats him one,
an' I swats de odder feller one, an' den I swats dem bote some
more, an' I gets de kitty, an' I brings her in here, cos I t'inks
maybe youse'll 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 Pugsy 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
endeavouring 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 Pugsy, though he had made no verbal comment on the
affair, had shown in many ways that he was not ungrateful.

"Bully for you, Pugsy!" 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."

"Sure thing," assented Master Maloney. He strolled slowly out,
while Billy Windsor, mounting a chair, proceeded to chirrup and
snap his fingers in the effort to establish the foundations of an
_entente cordiale_ with the rescued cat.

By the time that Pugsy returned, carrying a five-cent bottle of
milk, the animal had vacated the book-shelf, 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 Luella Granville Waterman, but Pugsy, having no
immediate duties on hand, concentrated himself on the cat.

"Say!" he said.

"Well?"

"Dat kitty."

"What about her?"

"Pipe de 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 dat kitty belongs. Dey all have dose collars. I
guess she's one of Bat Jarvis's kitties. He's got a lot of dem for
fair, and every one wit one of dem collars round deir 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-t'ree of dem, and dey all has dose collars."

"Are you on speaking terms with the gentleman?"

"Huh?"

"Do you know Bat Jarvis to speak to?"

"Sure. He's me 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, Pugsy. Why did you never tell
us? Are you going to join the gang some day?"

"Nope. Nothin' doin'. I'm goin' to be a cow-boy."

"Good for you. Well, you tell him when you see him. And now, my
lad, out you get, because if I'm interrupted any more I shan't get
through to-night."

"Sure," said Master Maloney, retiring.

"Oh, and Pugsy . . ."

"Huh?"

"Go out and get a good big basket. I shall want one to carry this
animal home in."

"Sure," said Master Maloney.


CHAPTER III

AT "THE GARDENIA"

"It would ill beseem me, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith,
thoughtfully sipping his coffee, "to run down the metropolis of a
great and friendly nation, but candour 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 lurked a 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, 'Psmith 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. Rah!' But what do we find?"

He paused, and lit 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 cow-boy has let off his revolver at random in
Broadway. The cables flash the message across the ocean, 'Psmith is
losing his illusions.'"

Mike had come to America with a team of the M.C.C. which was
touring the cricket-playing section of the United States. Psmith
had accompanied him in a private capacity. It was the end of their
first year at Cambridge, and Mike, with a century against Oxford to
his credit, had been one of the first to be invited to join the
tour. Psmith, 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 Psmith, but a trifle quiet. He
had welcomed the chance of getting a change of scene.

So far the visit had failed to satisfy him. Mike, whose tastes in
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
Psmith'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 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. To-night was
one of the rare occasions when Mike could get away. Psmith 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 sat 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, sonny," he said. "This
stays right here." He placed it carefully on the floor beside his
chair, and proceeded to order dinner.

Psmith 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 Holmes system to work. What is the most likely
thing for a man to have in a basket? You would reply, in your
unthinking way, 'sandwiches.' Error. A man with a basketful 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 on to 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 grey cat shot up like a rocket, and darted across the room.
Psmith watched with silent interest.

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

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

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

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

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

"Der gendleman - " argued the head-waiter.

Psmith stepped forward and touched him on the arm.

"May I have a word with you in private?"

"Zo?"

Psmith drew him away.

"You don't know who that is?" he whispered, nodding towards the
young man.

"No gendleman he is," asserted the head-waiter. "Der gendleman
would not der gat into - "

Psmith shook his head pityingly.

"These petty matters of etiquette are not for his Grace - but, hush,
he wishes to preserve his incognito."

"Ingognito?"

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

The head-waiter's eye rested upon the young man with a new interest
and respect.

"He is noble?" he inquired with awe.

"He is here strictly incognito, you understand," said Psmith
warningly. The 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 defence. The head-waiter approached
deferentially.

"Der gendleman," he said, indicating Psmith, who beamed in a
friendly manner through his eye-glass, "haf everything exblained.
All will now quite satisfactory be."

The young man looked inquiringly at Psmith, who winked
encouragingly. The head-waiter bowed.

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

"Sure," said the alleged duke.

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

"Windsor's my name."

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

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

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

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

"Your paper?"

"_Cosy Moments_," said Billy Windsor, with a touch of shame.

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

"Don't you do it."

"You've no paternal pride in the little journal?"

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

"It will be a pleasure," said Psmith. "Comrade Jackson, have you
any previous engagement for to-night?"

"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 IV

BAT JARVIS

Billy Windsor lived in a single room on East Fourteenth Street.
Space in New York is valuable, and the average bachelor's
apartments consist of one room with a bathroom opening off it.
During the daytime this one room loses all traces of being used for
sleeping purposes at night. Billy Windsor's room was very much like
a public-school study. Along one wall ran a settee. At night this
became a bed; but in the daytime it was a settee and nothing but a
settee. 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 this 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 settee. Psmith, 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 Psmith. "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 caravanserai - to be exact, the Astor - to pass a few
moments in the quiet privacy of an apartment such as this."

"It's beastly expensive at the Astor," said Mike.

"The place has that drawback also. Anon, Comrade Jackson, I think
we will hunt around for some such cubby-hole 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 neighbourhood. 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 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 on to the settee by Psmith's
side.

"There you are," he said, "if you really feel like it. Don't say I
didn't warn you. If you've got the nerve, read on."

Psmith 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 set 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 entrance 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.

Psmith waved a hand towards the rocking-chair. "That," he said, "is
Comrade Windsor. To your right is Comrade Jackson, England's
favourite son. I am Psmith."

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, mister."

"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's shop in Groome 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 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 a 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 by-word. For Bat Jarvis was the leader of the famous
Groome 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 Groome Street in those days there had been a
dance-hall, named the Shamrock and presided over by one Maginnis,
an Irishman and a friend of Bat's. At the Shamrock nightly dances
were given and well attended by the youth of the neighbourhood at
ten cents a head. All might have been well, had it not been for
certain other youths of the neighbourhood who did not dance and so
had to seek other means of getting rid of their surplus energy. It
was the practice of these light-hearted sportsmen to pay their ten
cents for admittance, and once in, to make hay. And this habit, Mr.
Maginnis 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 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 fists
and with the black-jack. And Mr. Maginnis 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 Brodie. Shamrock
Hall became a place of joy and order; and - more important
still - the nucleus of the Groome Street Gang had been formed. The
work progressed. Off-shoots of the main gang sprang up here and
there about the East Side. Small thieves, pickpockets and the
like, flocked to Mr. Jarvis as 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 Groome
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 Groome Street Gang unmolested and they waxed
fat and flourished.

Such was Bat Jarvis.

* * *

"Pipe de collar," said Mr. Jarvis, touching the cat's neck. "Mine,
mister."

"Pugsy said it must be," said Billy Windsor. "We found two fellows
setting a dog on to it, 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 Psmith's eye-glass, was transfixed by
it for a moment, and finally turned again to Billy Windsor.

"Say!" he said, and paused. "Obliged," he added.

He shifted the cat on to 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. "Obliged. Fond of de kit, I am."

Psmith nodded approvingly.

"And rightly," he said. "Rightly, 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 diner-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 bad. Glad to be of service.
You know the address. Groome Street. Bat Jarvis. Good night.
Obliged."

He paused and whistled a few more bars, then nodded to Psmith and
Mike, and left the room. They heard him shuffling downstairs.

"A blithe spirit," said Psmith. "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'd 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
useful friend to have. I guess there's no harm done by getting him
grateful."

"Assuredly not," said Psmith. "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
both of interest and of profit to you, Comrade Windsor."


CHAPTER V

PLANNING IMPROVEMENTS

"By the way," said Psmith, "what is your exact position on this
paper? Practically, we know well, you are its back-bone, its
life-blood; 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."

"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. At 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,
untrammelled."

"You bet I'm not," said Billy Windsor. "Guess again. There's no
room for developing free untrammelled ideas on this paper. When
you've looked at it, you'll see that each page is run by some one.
I'm simply the fellow who minds the shop."

Psmith clicked his tongue sympathetically. "It is like setting a
gifted French chef to wash up dishes," he said. "A 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 _Cosy 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."

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