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

friend Bat Jarvis. Bat at that time had a solid reputation as a man of his hands. It is true that, as his detractors pointed out, he had killed no one⁠—a defect which he had subsequently corrected; but his admirers based his claim to respect on his many meritorious performances with fists and with the blackjack. And Mr. Maginnis for one held him in the very highest esteem. To Bat accordingly he went, and laid his painful case before him. He offered him a handsome salary to be on hand at the nightly dances and check undue revelry by his own robust methods. Bat had accepted the offer. He had gone to Shamrock Hall; and with him, faithful adherents, had gone such stalwarts as Long Otto, Red Logan, Tommy Jefferson, and Pete Brodie. Shamrock Hall became a place of joy and order; and⁠—more important still⁠—the nucleus of the Groome Street Gang had been formed. The work progressed. Offshoots of the main gang sprang up here and there about the East Side. Small thieves, pickpockets and the like, flocked to Mr. Jarvis as their tribal leader and protector and he protected them. For he, with his followers, were of use to the politicians. The New York gangs, and especially the Groome Street Gang, have brought to a fine art the gentle practice of “repeating”; which, broadly speaking, is the art of voting a number of different times at different polling stations on election days. A man who can vote, say, ten times in a single day for you, and who controls a great number of followers who are also prepared, if they like you, to vote ten times in a single day for you, is worth cultivating. So the politicians passed the word to the police, and the police left the Groome Street Gang unmolested and they waxed fat and flourished.

Such was Bat Jarvis.

“Pipe de collar,” said Mr. Jarvis, touching the cat’s neck. “Mine, mister.”

“Pugsy said it must be,” said Billy Windsor. “We found two fellows setting a dog on to it, so we took it in for safety.”

Mr. Jarvis nodded approval.

“There’s a basket here, if you want it,” said Billy.

“Nope. Here, kit.”

Mr. Jarvis stooped, and, still whistling softly, lifted the cat. He looked round the company, met Psmith’s eyeglass, was transfixed by it for a moment, and finally turned again to Billy Windsor.

“Say!” he said, and paused. “Obliged,” he added.

He shifted the cat on to his left arm, and extended his right hand to Billy.

“Shake!” he said.

Billy did so.

Mr. Jarvis continued to stand and whistle for a few moments more.

“Say!” he said at length, fixing his roving gaze once more upon Billy. “Obliged. Fond of de kit, I am.”

Psmith nodded approvingly.

“And rightly,” he said. “Rightly, Comrade Jarvis. She is not unworthy of your affection. A most companionable animal, full of the highest spirits. Her knockabout act in the restaurant would have satisfied the most jaded critic. No diner-out can afford to be without such a cat. Such a cat spells death to boredom.”

Mr. Jarvis eyed him fixedly, as if pondering over his remarks. Then he turned to Billy again.

“Say!” he said. “Any time you’re in bad. Glad to be of service. You know the address. Groome Street. Bat Jarvis. Good night. Obliged.”

He paused and whistled a few more bars, then nodded to Psmith and Mike, and left the room. They heard him shuffling downstairs.

“A blithe spirit,” said Psmith. “Not garrulous, perhaps, but what of that? I am a man of few words myself. Comrade Jarvis’s massive silences appeal to me. He seems to have taken a fancy to you, Comrade Windsor.”

Billy Windsor laughed.

“I don’t know that he’s just the sort of side-partner I’d go out of my way to choose, from what I’ve heard about him. Still, if one got mixed up with any of that East-Side crowd, he would be a mighty useful friend to have. I guess there’s no harm done by getting him grateful.”

“Assuredly not,” said Psmith. “We should not despise the humblest. And now, Comrade Windsor,” he said, taking up the paper again, “let me concentrate myself tensely on this very entertaining little journal of yours. Comrade Jackson, here is one for you. For sound, clearheaded criticism,” he added to Billy, “Comrade Jackson’s name is a byword in our English literary salons. His opinion will be both of interest and of profit to you, Comrade Windsor.”

V Planning Improvements

“By the way,” said Psmith, “what is your exact position on this paper? Practically, we know well, you are its backbone, its lifeblood; but what is your technical position? When your proprietor is congratulating himself on having secured the ideal man for your job, what precise job does he congratulate himself on having secured the ideal man for?”

“I’m subeditor.”

“Merely sub? You deserve a more responsible post than that, Comrade Windsor. Where is your proprietor? I must buttonhole him and point out to him what a wealth of talent he is allowing to waste itself. You must have scope.”

“He’s in Europe. At Carlsbad, or somewhere. He never comes near the paper. He just sits tight and draws the profits. He lets the editor look after things. Just at present I’m acting as editor.”

“Ah! then at last you have your big chance. You are free, untrammelled.”

“You bet I’m not,” said Billy Windsor. “Guess again. There’s no room for developing free untrammelled ideas on this paper. When you’ve looked at it, you’ll see that each page is run by someone. I’m simply the fellow who minds the shop.”

Psmith clicked his tongue sympathetically. “It is like setting a gifted French chef to wash up dishes,” he said. “A man of your undoubted powers, Comrade Windsor, should have more scope. That is the cry, ‘more scope!’ I must look into this matter. When I gaze at your broad, bulging forehead, when I see the clear light of intelligence in your eyes, and hear the grey matter splashing restlessly about in your cerebellum, I say to myself without hesitation, ‘Comrade Windsor must have more scope.’ ” He