Psmith, Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse (romance novel chinese novels txt) 📕

“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 cowboy.”

“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 tonight.”

“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.

“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 honeydew 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 cakewalks in the street. No cowboy 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. Tonight 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