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

Mr. Coston said: “Huh?”

Mr. Dawson said: “Sure.”

Mr. Coston called Mr. Dawson a pie-faced rubbernecked four-flusher.

Mr. Dawson called Mr. Coston a coon.

And that was where the trouble really started.

It was secretly a great grief to Mr. Coston that his skin was of so swarthy a hue. To be permitted to address Mr. Coston face to face by his nickname was a sign of the closest friendship, to which only Spider Reilly, Jack Repetto, and one or two more of the gang could aspire. Others spoke of him as Nigger, or, more briefly, Nig⁠—strictly behind his back. For Mr. Coston had a wide reputation as a fighter, and his particular mode of battling was to descend on his antagonist and bite him. Into this action he flung himself with the passionate abandonment of the artist. When he bit he bit. He did not nibble.

If a friend had called Mr. Coston “Nig” he would have been running grave risks. A stranger, and a leader of a rival gang, who addressed him as “coon” was more than asking for trouble. He was pleading for it.

Great men seldom waste time. Mr. Coston, leaning towards Mr. Dawson, promptly bit him on the cheek. Mr. Dawson bounded from his seat. Such was the excitement of the moment that, instead of drawing his “canister,” he forgot that he had one on his person, and, seizing a mug which had held beer, bounced it vigorously on Mr. Coston’s skull, which, being of solid wood, merely gave out a resonant note and remained unbroken.

So far the honours were comparatively even, with perhaps a slight balance in favour of Mr. Coston. But now occurred an incident which turned the scale, and made war between the gangs inevitable. In the far corner of the room, surrounded by a crowd of admiring friends, sat Spider Reilly, monarch of the Three Points. He had noticed that there was a slight disturbance at the other side of the hall, but had given it little attention till, the dancing ceasing suddenly and the floor emptying itself of its crowd, he had a plain view of Mr. Dawson and Mr. Coston squaring up at each other for the second round. We must assume that Mr. Reilly was not thinking what he did, for his action was contrary to all rules of gang-etiquette. In the street it would have been perfectly legitimate, even praiseworthy, but in a dance-hall belonging to a neutral power it was unpardonable.

What he did was to produce his “canister” and pick off the unsuspecting Mr. Dawson just as that exquisite was preparing to get in some more good work with the beer-mug. The leader of the Table Hillites fell with a crash, shot through the leg; and Spider Reilly, together with Mr. Coston and others of the Three Points, sped through the doorway for safety, fearing the wrath of Bat Jarvis, who, it was known, would countenance no such episodes at the dance-hall which he had undertaken to protect.

Mr. Dawson, meanwhile, was attended to and helped home. Willing informants gave him the name of his aggressor, and before morning the Table Hill camp was in ferment. Shooting broke out in three places, though there were no casualties. When the day dawned there existed between the two gangs a state of war more bitter than any in their record; for this time it was no question of obscure nonentities. Chieftain had assaulted chieftain; royal blood had been spilt.

“Comrade Windsor,” said Psmith, when Master Maloney had spoken his last word, “we must take careful note of this little matter. I rather fancy that sooner or later we may be able to turn it to our profit. I am sorry for Dude Dawson, anyhow. Though I have never met him, I have a sort of instinctive respect for him. A man such as he would feel a bullet through his trouser-leg more than one of common clay who cared little how his clothes looked.”

Careful inquiries, conducted incognito by Master Maloney among the denizens of Pleasant Street, brought the information that rents in the tenements were collected not weekly but monthly, a fact which must undoubtedly cause a troublesome hitch in the campaign. Rent-day, announced Pugsy, fell on the last day of the month.

“I rubbered around,” he said, “and did de sleut’ act, and I finds t’ings out. Dere’s a feller comes round ’bout supper time dat day, an’ den it’s up to de fam’lies what lives in de tenements to dig down into deir jeans fer de stuff, or out dey goes dat same night.”

“Evidently a hustler, our nameless friend,” said Psmith.

“I got dat from a kid what knows anuder kid what lives dere,” explained Master Maloney. “Say,” he proceeded confidentially, “dat kid’s in bad, sure he is. Dat second kid, de one what lives dere. He’s a wop kid, an⁠—”

“A what, Comrade Maloney?”

“A wop. A Dago. Why, don’t you get next? Why, an Italian. Sure, dat’s right. Well, dis kid, he is sure to de bad, ’cos his father come over from Italy to work on de Subway.”

“I don’t see why that puts him in bad,” said Billy Windsor wonderingly.

“Nor I,” agreed Psmith. “Your narratives, Comrade Maloney, always seem to me to suffer from a certain lack of construction. You start at the end, and then you go back to any portion of the story which happens to appeal to you at the moment, eventually winding up at the beginning. Why should the fact that this stripling’s father has come over from Italy to work on the Subway be a misfortune?”

“Why, sure, because he got fired an’ went an’ swatted de foreman one on de coco, an’ de magistrate gives him t’oity days.”

“And then, Comrade Maloney? This thing is beginning to get clearer. You are like Sherlock Holmes. After you’ve explained a thing from start to finish⁠—or, as you prefer to do, from finish to start⁠—it becomes quite simple.”

“Why, den dis kid’s in bad for fair, ’cos der ain’t nobody to pungle de bones⁠—”

“Pungle de what, Comrade Maloney?”

“De bones. De stuff. Dat’s right. De dollars. He’s