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

Cambridge were a compound of mud, mist, and melancholy. But in Psmith’s rooms the fire burned brightly, the kettle droned, and all, as the proprietor had just observed, was joy, jollity, and song. Psmith, in pyjamas and a college blazer, was lying on the sofa. Mike, who had been playing football, was reclining in a comatose state in an armchair by the fire.

“How pleasant it would be,” said Psmith dreamily, “if all our friends on the other side of the Atlantic could share this very peaceful moment with us! Or perhaps not quite all. Let us say, Comrade Windsor in the chair over there, Comrades Brady and Maloney on the table, and our old pal Wilberfloss sharing the floor with B. Henderson Asher, Bat Jarvis, and the cats. By the way, I think it would be a graceful act if you were to write to Comrade Jarvis from time to time telling him how your Angoras are getting on. He regards you as the World’s Most Prominent Citizen. A line from you every now and then would sweeten the lad’s existence.”

Mike stirred sleepily in his chair.

“What?” he said drowsily.

“Never mind, Comrade Jackson. Let us pass lightly on. I am filled with a strange content tonight. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that all is singularly to de good, as Comrade Maloney would put it. Advices from Comrade Windsor inform me that that prince of blighters, Waring, was rejected by an intelligent electorate. Those keen, clear-sighted citizens refused to vote for him to an extent that you could notice without a microscope. Still, he has one consolation. He owns what, when the improvements are completed, will be the finest and most commodious tenement houses in New York. Millionaires will stop at them instead of going to the Plaza. Are you asleep, Comrade Jackson?”

“Um⁠—m,” said Mike.

“That is excellent. You could not be better employed. Keep listening. Comrade Windsor also stated⁠—as indeed did the sporting papers⁠—that Comrade Brady put it all over friend Eddie Wood, administering the sleep-producer in the eighth round. My authorities are silent as to whether or not the lethal blow was a half-scissor hook, but I presume such to have been the case. The Kid is now definitely matched against Comrade Garvin for the championship, and the experts seem to think that he should win. He is a stout fellow, is Comrade Brady, and I hope he wins through. He will probably come to England later on. When he does, we must show him round. I don’t think you ever met him, did you, Comrade Jackson?”

“Ur⁠—r,” said Mike.

“Say no more,” said Psmith. “I take you.”

He reached out for a cigarette.

“These,” he said, comfortably, “are the moments in life to which we look back with that wistful pleasure. What of my boyhood at Eton? Do I remember with the keenest joy the brain-tourneys in the old form-room, and the bally rot which used to take place on the Fourth of June? No. Burned deeply into my memory is a certain hot bath I took after one of the foulest cross-country runs that ever occurred outside Dante’s Inferno. So with the present moment. This peaceful scene, Comrade Jackson, will remain with me when I have forgotten that such a person as Comrade Repetto ever existed. These are the real Cosy Moments. And while on that subject you will be glad to hear that the little sheet is going strong. The man Wilberfloss is a marvel in his way. He appears to have gathered in the majority of the old subscribers again. Hopping mad but a brief while ago, they now eat out of his hand. You’ve really no notion what a feeling of quiet pride it gives you owning a paper. I try not to show it, but I seem to myself to be looking down on the world from some lofty peak. Yesterday night, when I was looking down from the peak without a cap and gown, a proctor slid up. Today I had to dig down into my jeans for a matter of two plunks. But what of it? Life must inevitably be dotted with these minor tragedies. I do not repine. The whisper goes round, ‘Psmith bites the bullet, and wears a brave smile.’ Comrade Jackson⁠—”

A snore came from the chair.

Psmith sighed. But he did not repine. He bit the bullet. His eyes closed.

Five minutes later a slight snore came from the sofa, too. The man behind Cosy Moments slept.

Colophon

Psmith, Journalist
was published in 1923 by
P. G. Wodehouse.

This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
John Reid,
and is based on a transcription produced in 2001 by
Jim Tinsley, David Widger, and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team
for
Project Gutenberg
and on digital scans available at the
Internet Archive
and the
HathiTrust Digital Library.

The cover page is adapted from
Richard Humphreys, the Boxer,
a painting completed in 1787 by
John Hoppner.
The cover and title pages feature the
League Spartan and Sorts Mill Goudy
typefaces created in 2014 and 2009 by
The League of Moveable Type.

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January 25, 2021, 11:30 p.m.
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