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

“I shouldn’t,” urged Psmith. “All will be well with the paper. You have left a good man at the helm.”

“I guess I shan’t get a chance, but I’ll try it if I do.”

The door opened and the policeman reappeared.

“Time’s up, I reckon.”

“Well, goodbye, Comrade Windsor,” said Psmith regretfully. “Abstain from undue worrying. It’s a walkover from now on, and there’s no earthly need for you to be around the office. Once, I admit, this could not have been said. But now things have simplified themselves. Have no fear. This act is going to be a scream from start to finish.”

Master Maloney raised his eyes for a moment from his book as Psmith re-entered the office.

“Dere’s a guy in dere waitin’ ter see youse,” he said briefly, jerking his head in the direction of the inner room.

“A guy waiting to see me, Comrade Maloney? With or without a sandbag?”

“Says his name’s Jackson,” said Master Maloney, turning a page.

Psmith moved quickly to the door of the inner room.

“Why, Comrade Jackson,” he said, with the air of a father welcoming home the prodigal son, “this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year. Where did you come from?”

Mike, looking very brown and in excellent condition, put down the paper he was reading.

“Hullo, Psmith,” he said. “I got back this morning. We’re playing a game over in Brooklyn tomorrow.”

“No engagements of any importance today?”

“Not a thing. Why?”

“Because I propose to take you to visit Comrade Jarvis, whom you will doubtless remember.”

“Jarvis?” said Mike, puzzled. “I don’t remember any Jarvis.”

“Let your mind wander back a little through the jungle of the past. Do you recollect paying a visit to Comrade Windsor’s room⁠—”

“By the way, where is Windsor?”

“In prison. Well, on that evening⁠—”

“In prison?”

“For thirty days. For slugging a policeman. More of this, however, anon. Let us return to that evening. Don’t you remember a certain gentleman with just about enough forehead to keep his front hair from getting all tangled up with his eyebrows?”

“Oh, the cat chap? I know.”

“As you very justly observe, Comrade Jackson, the cat chap. For going straight to the mark and seizing on the salient point of a situation, I know of no one who can last two minutes against you. Comrade Jarvis may have other sides to his character⁠—possibly many⁠—but it is as a cat chap that I wish to approach him today.”

“What’s the idea? What are you going to see him for?”

“We,” corrected Psmith. “I will explain all at a little luncheon at which I trust that you will be my guest. Already, such is the stress of this journalistic life, I hear my tissues crying out imperatively to be restored. An oyster and a glass of milk somewhere round the corner, Comrade Jackson? I think so, I think so.”

“I was reading Cosy Moments in there,” said Mike, as they lunched. “You certainly seem to have bucked it up rather. Kid Brady’s reminiscences are hot stuff.”

“Somewhat sizzling, Comrade Jackson,” admitted Psmith. “They have, however, unfortunately cost us a fighting editor.”

“How’s that?”

“Such is the boost we have given Comrade Brady, that he is now never without a match. He has had to leave us today to go to White Plains to train for an encounter with a certain Mr. Wood, a four-ounce-glove juggler of established fame.”

“I expect you need a fighting editor, don’t you?”

“He is indispensable, Comrade Jackson, indispensable.”

“No rotting. Has anybody cut up rough about the stuff you’ve printed?”

“Cut up rough? Gadzooks! I need merely say that one critical reader put a bullet through my hat⁠—”

“Rot! Not really?”

“While others kept me tree’d on top of a roof for the space of nearly an hour. Assuredly they have cut up rough, Comrade Jackson.”

“Great Scott! Tell us.”

Psmith briefly recounted the adventures of the past few weeks.

“But, man,” said Mike, when he had finished, “why on earth don’t you call in the police?”

“We have mentioned the matter to certain of the force. They appeared tolerably interested, but showed no tendency to leap excitedly to our assistance. The New York policeman, Comrade Jackson, like all great men, is somewhat peculiar. If you go to a New York policeman and exhibit a black eye, he will examine it and express some admiration for the abilities of the citizen responsible for the same. If you press the matter, he becomes bored, and says, ‘Ain’t youse satisfied with what youse got? G’wan!’ His advice in such cases is good, and should be followed. No; since coming to this city I have developed a habit of taking care of myself, or employing private help. That is why I should like you, if you will, to come with me to call upon Comrade Jarvis. He is a person of considerable influence among that section of the populace which is endeavouring to smash in our occiputs. Indeed, I know of nobody who cuts a greater quantity of ice. If I can only enlist Comrade Jarvis’s assistance, all will be well. If you are through with your refreshment, shall we be moving in his direction? By the way, it will probably be necessary in the course of our interview to allude to you as one of our most eminent living cat-fanciers. You do not object? Remember that you have in your English home seventy-four fine cats, mostly Angoras. Are you on to that? Then let us be going. Comrade Maloney has given me the address. It is a goodish step down on the East side. I should like to take a taxi, but it might seem ostentatious. Let us walk.”

They found Mr. Jarvis in his Groome Street fancier’s shop, engaged in the intellectual occupation of greasing a cat’s paws with butter. He looked up as they entered, and began to breathe a melody with a certain coyness.

“Comrade Jarvis,” said Psmith, “we meet again. You remember me?”

“Nope,” said Mr. Jarvis, pausing for a moment in the middle of a bar, and then taking up the air where he