Psmith was deep in Lucia Granville Waterman's "Moments in the
Nursery." He turned to Billy Windsor.
"Luella 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 Psmith courteously. "For, speaking as man to man,
I must confess that for sheer, concentrated bilge she gets away
with the biscuit with almost insolent ease. Luella Granville
Waterman must go."
"How do you mean?"
"She must go," repeated Psmith 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 Luella 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."
Psmith 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."
Psmith 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 _Cosy Moments_ a name to conjure with. You must
boost this sheet up till New York rings with your exploits. On the
present lines that is impossible. You must strike out a line for
yourself. You must show the world that even _Cosy Moments_ cannot
keep a good man down."
He resumed his seat.
"How do you mean?" said Billy Windsor.
Psmith 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 Psmith, 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. _Cosy 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 despatched
to-morrow morning, informing Luella Granville 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 this 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. Fillken
Wilberfloss returned and found the apple of his eye torn asunder
and, so to speak, deprived of its choicest pips. On the other hand
. . . 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 leaped within him. In ten weeks he
could change _Cosy 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.
Psmith 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 is at
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 Psmith, "is unhappily more fettered.
The exigencies of his cricket tour will compel him constantly to be
gadding about, now to Philadelphia, now to Saskatchewan, anon to
Onehorseville, Ga. 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 Psmith. "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 _Cosy Moments_ should become red-hot stuff. I could wish its
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 search-light, showing up the dark
spot in the souls of those who would endeavour in any way to do the
PEOPLE in the eye. We must detect the wrong-doer, and deliver him
such a series of resentful buffs that he will abandon his little
games and become a model 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 fervour.
CHAPTER VI
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 _Cosy Moments_'
entire staff of contributors left a gap in the paper which had to be
filled, and owing to the nearness of press day 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 the legend, "Next Week! See Editorial!" and compiling
in conjunction a snappy editorial, setting forth the proposed
changes. This was largely the work of Psmith.
"Comrade Jackson," he said to Mike, as they set forth one evening
in search of their new flat, "I fancy I have found my metier.
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 to me 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 '_Cosy 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 What's-her-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-baulk in no uncertain voice were only
despatched 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 that
the proprietor's in Europe."
Psmith regarded him with pained surprise.
"I do not understand you, Comrade Jackson. Do you insinuate that
we are not acting in the proprietor's best interests? When he sees
the receipts, after we have handled the paper for a while, he will
go singing about his hotel. His beaming smile will be a by-word in
Carlsbad. Visitors will be shown it as one of the sights. 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 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 singular stroke of good fortune
Comrade Wilberfloss - his name is Wilberfloss - has been ordered
complete rest during his holiday. The kindly medico, realising the
fearful strain inflicted by reading _Cosy 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 up on the other side of that lamp-post."
"Let us wend in that direction. Ah, Pleasant Street? I fancy that
the master-mind who chose that name must have had the rudiments of
a sense of humour."
It was indeed a repellent neighbourhood 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 and varied, are penned up 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 the city does
one realise so fully the disadvantages of a lack of space. New
York, being an island, has had no room to spread. It is a town of
human sardines. In the poorer quarters the congestion is
unbelievable.
Psmith and Mike picked their way through the 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."
Psmith 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 on to the street, and so got a
little light and air. The imagination jibbed at the thought of the
back rooms.
"I wonder who owns these places," said Psmith. "It seems to me
that there's what you might call room for improvement. It wouldn't
be a scaly idea to turn that _Cosy Moments_ search-light we were
talking about on to them."
They walked on a few steps.
"Look here," said Psmith, stopping. "This place makes me sick. I'm
going in to have a look round. I expect some muscular householder
will resent the intrusion and boot us 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
ajar. Through the opening they had a glimpse of a number of women
sitting round 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 Pleasant Street back room. The architect
in this case had given rein 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 Psmith, as they walked on, "is where _Cosy Moments_ gets
busy at a singularly early date."
"What are you going to do?" asked Mike.
"I propose, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith, "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
disembowelling. I fancy, however, that a mawkishly 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 Fourth Avenue."
CHAPTER VII
VISITORS AT THE OFFICE
On the following morning Mike had to leave with the team for
Philadelphia. Psmith 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 my part
in the great work of making New York sit up. By the time you
return, with a century or two, I trust, in your bag, the good work
should, I fancy, be getting 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
Thirtieth Street. It was immediately above a saloon, which was
something of a drawback, but the landlord had assured them that the
voices of the revellers did not penetrate to it.
* * *
When the ferry-boat had borne Mike off across the river, Psmith
turned to stroll to the office of _Cosy Moments_. The day was fine,
and on the whole, despite Mike's desertion, he felt pleased with
life. Psmith's 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 remodelled _Cosy Moments_ might supply this. He
liked Billy Windsor, and looked forward to a not unenjoyable time
till Mike should return.
The offices of _Cosy Moments_ were in a large building in the street
off Madison Avenue. They consisted of a sort of outer lair, where
Pugsy Maloney spent his time reading tales of life in the prairies
and heading off undesirable visitors; a small room, which would
have belonged to the stenographer if _Cosy Moments_ had possessed
one; and a larger room beyond, which was the editorial sanctum.
As Psmith passed through the front door, Pugsy Maloney rose.
"Say!" said Master Maloney.
"Say on, Comrade Maloney," said Psmith.
"Dey're in dere."
"Who, precisely?"
"A whole bunch of dem."
Psmith inspected Master Maloney through his eye-glass. "Can
you give me any particulars?" he asked patiently. "You are
well-meaning, but vague, Comrade Maloney. Who are in there?"
"De whole bunch of dem. Dere's Mr. Asher and the Rev. Philpotts and
a gazebo what calls himself Waterman and about 'steen more of dem."
A faint smile appeared upon Psmith's face.
"And is Comrade Windsor in there, too, in the middle of them?"
"Nope. Mr. Windsor's out to lunch."
"Comrade Windsor knows his business. Why did you let them in?"
"Sure, dey just butted in," said Master Maloney complainingly. "I
was sittin' here, readin' me book, when de foist of de guys blew
in. 'Boy,' says he, 'is de editor in?' 'Nope,' I says. 'I'll go in
an' wait,' says he. 'Nuttin' doin',' says I. 'Nix on de goin' in
act.' I might as well have saved me breat'. In he butts, and he's
in der now. Well, in about t'ree minutes along comes another
gazebo. 'Boy,' says he, 'is de editor in?' 'Nope,' I says. 'I'll
wait,' says he lightin' out for de door. Wit dat I sees de
proposition's too fierce for muh. I can't keep dese big husky guys
out if dey's for buttin' in. So when de rest of de bunch comes
along, I don't try to give dem de t'run down. I says, 'Well,
gents,' I says, 'it's up to youse. De editor ain't in, but if youse
wants to join de giddy t'rong, push t'roo inter de inner room. I
can't be boddered.'"
"And what more _could_ you have said?" agreed Psmith 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 some one with a hatchet?"
"Dey was hoppin'-mad, de whole bunch of dem."
"As I suspected. But we must not repine, Comrade Maloney. These
trifling contretemps are the penalties we pay for our high
journalistic aims. I will interview these merchants. I fancy that
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 of
delicate culture and nice tact. Comrade Windsor would probably have
endeavoured to clear the room with a chair. If he should arrive
during the seance, 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 snowdrops growing
in Madison Square Garden."
"Sure," said Master Maloney.
Then Psmith, 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.
CHAPTER VIII
THE HONEYED WORD
Master Maloney's statement that "about 'steen visitors" had arrived
in addition to Messrs. Asher, Waterman, and the Rev. Philpotts
proved to have been due to a great extent to a somewhat feverish
imagination. There were only five men in the room.
As Psmith 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 smouldering with a long-nursed resentment. Five
brows were corrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was the
simple majesty of Psmith's demeanour that for a moment there was
dead silence. Not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped in
thought, 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 murmured.
The words broke the spell. Instantly, the five visitors burst
simultaneously into 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.
Psmith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gaze
through his eye-glass.
"Are you Mr. Windsor, sir, may I ask?" inquired the favoured one.
The others paused for the reply.
"Alas! no," said Psmith with manly regret.
"Then who are you?"
"I am Psmith."
There was a pause.
"Where is Mr. Windsor?"
"He is, I fancy, champing about forty cents' worth of lunch at some
neighbouring hostelry."
"When will he return?"
"Anon. But how much anon I fear I cannot say."
The visitors looked at each other.
"This is exceedingly annoying," said the man who had said "Pardon
me!" "I came for the express purpose of seeing Mr. Windsor."
"So did I," chimed in the rest. "Same here. So did I."
Psmith bowed courteously.
"Comrade 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 Psmith
gratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round, 'Can Psmith 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 Psmith, "but I should say it,
also, was Waterman."
"Luella Granville Waterman, sir," said the little man proudly.
Psmith removed his eye-glass, polished it, and replaced it in his
eye. He felt that 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 Psmith, "has received this extraordinary
communication from a man signing himself W. Windsor. We are
both at a loss to make head or tail of it."
Psmith 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 burst 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. Philpotts, sir," said a cadaverous-
looking 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 Psmith. "I
may be wrong, but yours seems to me work which the world will not
willingly let die."
The Reverend Edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile.
"And yet," continued Psmith, "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 what 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 serge suit, bobbed into the open,
and spoke his piece.
"Where's this fellow Windsor? W. Windsor. That's the man we want
to see. I've been working for this paper without a break, except
when I had the mumps, for four years, and I've 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," murmured Psmith.
"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 Psmith.
"Asher's my name. B. Henderson Asher. I write 'Moments of Mirth.'"
A look almost of excitement came into Psmith'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 Psmith, 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 Psmith, indicating the
rest with a wave of the hand, "don't know. Nobody knows. His
locality is as hard to ascertain as that of a black cat in a
coal-cellar 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, making a noise like a piece of meat in
order to snare crocodiles. Possibly in Canada, baiting moose-traps.
We have no data."
Silent consternation prevailed among the audience. Finally the Rev.
Edwin T. Philpotts was struck with an idea.
"Where is Mr. White?" he asked.
The point was well received.
"Yes, where's Mr. Benjamin White?" chorused the rest.
Psmith 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?"
Psmith bowed.
"With your customary clear-headedness, Comrade Asher, you have got
home on the bull's-eye 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 programme of _Cosy 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.
Psmith 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 confuse 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 entire command of the
journal on 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
_r