Psmith, Journalist P. G. Wodehouse (e reader books txt) 📖

got your living to make, just like everybody else, I guess. Well, see here. This is how it stands. To a certain extant, I don’t mind admitting, seeing that we’re being frank with one another, you two gentlemen have got us⁠—that’s to say, my employer⁠—in a cleft stick. Frankly, those articles are beginning to attract attention, and if they go on there’s going to be a lot of inconvenience for my employer. That’s clear, I reckon. Well, now, here’s a square proposition. How much do you want to stop those articles? That’s straight. I’ve been frank with you, and I want you to be frank with me. What’s your figure? Name it, and, if it’s not too high, I guess we needn’t quarrel.”

He looked expectantly at Billy. Billy’s eyes were bulging. He struggled for speech. He had got as far as “Say!” when Psmith interrupted him. Psmith, gazing sadly at Mr. Parker through his monocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old Roman senator dealing with the enemies of the Republic.

“Comrade Parker,” he said, “I fear that you have allowed constant communication with the conscienceless commercialism of this worldly city to undermine your moral sense. It is useless to dangle rich bribes before our eyes. Cosy Moments cannot be muzzled. You doubtless mean well, according to your⁠—if I may say so⁠—somewhat murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at ten cents weekly. From the hills of Maine to the Everglades of Florida, from Sandy Hook to San Francisco, from Portland, Oregon, to Melonsquashville, Tennessee, one sentence is in every man’s mouth. And what is that sentence? I give you three guesses. You give it up? It is this: ‘Cosy Moments cannot be muzzled!’ ”

Mr. Parker rose.

“There’s nothing more to be done then,” he said.

“Nothing,” agreed Psmith, “except to make a noise like a hoop and roll away.”

“And do it quick,” yelled Billy, exploding like a firecracker.

Psmith bowed.

“Speed,” he admitted, “would be no bad thing. Frankly⁠—if I may borrow the expression⁠—your square proposition has wounded us. I am a man of powerful self-restraint, one of those strong, silent men, and I can curb my emotions. But I fear that Comrade Windsor’s generous temperament may at any moment prompt him to start throwing inkpots. And in Wyoming his deadly aim with the inkpot won him among the admiring cowboys the sobriquet of Crack-Shot Cuthbert. As man to man, Comrade Parker, I should advise you to bound swiftly away.”

“I’m going,” said Mr. Parker, picking up his hat. “And I’ll give you a piece of advice, too. Those articles are going to be stopped, and if you’ve any sense between you, you’ll stop them yourselves before you get hurt. That’s all I’ve got to say, and that goes.”

He went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that added emphasis to his words.

“To men of nicely poised nervous organisation such as ourselves, Comrade Windsor,” said Psmith, smoothing his waistcoat thoughtfully, “these scenes are acutely painful. We wince before them. Our ganglions quiver like cinematographs. Gradually recovering command of ourselves, we review the situation. Did our visitor’s final remarks convey anything definite to you? Were they the mere casual badinage of a parting guest, or was there something solid behind them?”

Billy Windsor was looking serious.

“I guess he meant it all right. He’s evidently working for somebody pretty big, and that sort of man would have a pull with all kinds of Thugs. We shall have to watch out. Now that they find we can’t be bought, they’ll try the other way. They mean business sure enough. But, by George, let ’em! We’re up against a big thing, and I’m going to see it through if they put every gang in New York on to us.”

“Precisely, Comrade Windsor. Cosy Moments, as I have had occasion to observe before, cannot be muzzled.”

“That’s right,” said Billy Windsor. “And,” he added, with the contented look the Far West editor must have worn as the bullet came through the window, “we must have got them scared, or they wouldn’t have shown their hand that way. I guess we’re making a hit. Cosy Moments is going some now.”

XI The Man at the Astor

The duties of Master Pugsy Maloney at the offices of Cosy Moments were not heavy; and he was accustomed to occupy his large store of leisure by reading narratives dealing with life in the prairies, which he acquired at a neighbouring shop at cut rates in consideration of their being shop-soiled. It was while he was engrossed in one of these, on the morning following the visit of Mr. Parker, that the seedy-looking man made his appearance. He walked in from the street, and stood before Master Maloney.

“Hey, kid,” he said.

Pugsy looked up with some hauteur. He resented being addressed as “kid” by perfect strangers.

“Editor in, Tommy?” inquired the man.

Pugsy by this time had taken a thorough dislike to him. To be called “kid” was bad. The subtle insult of “Tommy” was still worse.

“Nope,” he said curtly, fixing his eyes again on his book. A movement on the part of the visitor attracted his attention. The seedy man was making for the door of the inner room. Pugsy instantly ceased to be the student and became the man of action. He sprang from his seat and wriggled in between the man and the door.

“Youse can’t butt in dere,” he said authoritatively. “Chase yerself.”

The man eyed him with displeasure.

“Fresh kid!” he observed disapprovingly.

“Fade away,” urged Master Maloney.

The visitor’s reply was to extend a hand and grasp Pugsy’s left ear between a long finger and thumb. Since time began, small boys in every country have had but one answer for this action. Pugsy made it. He emitted a piercing squeal in which pain, fear, and resentment strove for supremacy.

The noise penetrated into the editorial sanctum, losing only a small part of its strength on the way. Psmith, who was at work on a review of a book of poetry, looked