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

“Like John Brown’s soul,” said Psmith, nodding. “I see. Then you propose to make quite a little tour in this cab?”

“You’ve got it.”

“And when we are out in the open country, where there are no witnesses, things may begin to move.”

“That’s it.”

“Then,” said Psmith heartily, “till that moment arrives what we must do is to entertain each other with conversation. You can take no step of any sort for a full half-hour, possibly more, so let us give ourselves up to the merriment of the passing instant. Are you good at riddles, Comrade Parker? How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, assuming for purposes of argument that it was in the power of a woodchuck to chuck wood?”

Mr. Parker did not attempt to solve this problem. He was sitting in the same attitude of watchfulness, the revolver resting on his knee. He seemed mistrustful of Psmith’s right hand, which was hanging limply at his side. It was from this quarter that he seemed to expect attack. The cab was bowling easily up the broad street, past rows on rows of high houses, all looking exactly the same. Occasionally, to the right, through a break in the line of buildings, a glimpse of the river could be seen.

Psmith resumed the conversation.

“You are not interested in woodchucks, Comrade Parker? Well, well, many people are not. A passion for the flora and fauna of our forests is innate rather than acquired. Let us talk of something else. Tell me about your home life, Comrade Parker. Are you married? Are there any little Parkers running about the house? When you return from this very pleasant excursion will baby voices crow gleefully, ‘Fahzer’s come home’?”

Mr. Parker said nothing.

“I see,” said Psmith with ready sympathy. “I understand. Say no more. You are unmarried. She wouldn’t have you. Alas, Comrade Parker! However, thus it is! We look around us, and what do we see? A solid phalanx of the girls we have loved and lost. Tell me about her, Comrade Parker. Was it your face or your manners at which she drew the line?”

Mr. Parker leaned forward with a scowl. Psmith did not move, but his right hand, as it hung, closed. Another moment and Mr. Parker’s chin would be in just the right position for a swift uppercut.⁠ ⁠…

This fact appeared suddenly to dawn on Mr. Parker himself. He drew back quickly, and half raised the revolver. Psmith’s hand resumed its normal attitude.

“Leaving more painful topics,” said Psmith, “let us turn to another point. That note which the grubby stripling brought to me at the office purported to come from Comrade Windsor, and stated that he had escaped from Blackwell’s Island, and was awaiting my arrival at some address in the Bowery. Would you mind telling me, purely to satisfy my curiosity, if that note was genuine? I have never made a close study of Comrade Windsor’s handwriting, and in an unguarded moment I may have assumed too much.”

Mr. Parker permitted himself a smile.

“I guess you aren’t so clever after all,” he said. “The note was a fake all right.”

“And you had this cab waiting for me on the chance?”

Mr. Parker nodded.

“Sherlock Holmes was right,” said Psmith regretfully. “You may remember that he advised Doctor Watson never to take the first cab, or the second. He should have gone further, and urged him not to take cabs at all. Walking is far healthier.”

“You’ll find it so,” said Mr. Parker.

Psmith eyed him curiously.

“What are you going to do with me, Comrade Parker?” he asked.

Mr. Parker did not reply. Psmith’s eye turned again to the window. They had covered much ground since last he had looked at the view. They were off Manhattan Island now, and the houses were beginning to thin out. Soon, travelling at their present rate, they must come into the open country. Psmith relapsed into silence. It was necessary for him to think. He had been talking in the hope of getting the other off his guard; but Mr. Parker was evidently too keenly on the lookout. The hand that held the revolver never wavered. The muzzle, pointing in an upward direction, was aimed at Psmith’s waist. There was no doubt that a move on his part would be fatal. If the pistol went off, it must hit him. If it had been pointed at his head in the orthodox way he might have risked a sudden blow to knock it aside, but in the present circumstances that would be useless. There was nothing to do but wait.

The cab moved swiftly on. Now they had reached the open country. An occasional wooden shack was passed, but that was all. At any moment the climax of the drama might be reached. Psmith’s muscles stiffened for a spring. There was little chance of its being effective, but at least it would be better to put up some kind of a fight. And he had a faint hope that the suddenness of his movement might upset the other’s aim. He was bound to be hit somewhere. That was certain. But quickness might save him to some extent.

He braced his leg against the back of the cab. In another moment he would have sprung; but just then the smooth speed of the cab changed to a series of jarring bumps, each more emphatic than the last. It slowed down, then came to a halt. One of the tyres had burst.

There was a thud, as the chauffeur jumped down. They heard him fumbling in the toolbox. Presently the body of the machine was raised slightly as he got to work with the jack.

It was about a minute later that somebody in the road outside spoke.

“Had a breakdown?” inquired the voice. Psmith recognised it. It was the voice of Kid Brady.

The Kid, as he had stated to Psmith at their last interview that he intended to do, had begun his training for his match with Eddie Wood, at White Plains, a village distant but a few