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

all alone, dis kid, so when de rent-guy blows in, who’s to slip him over de simoleons? It’ll be outside for his, quick.”

Billy warmed up at this tale of distress in his usual way. “Somebody ought to do something. It’s a vile shame the kid being turned out like that.”

“We will see to it, Comrade Windsor. Cosy Moments shall step in. We will combine business with pleasure, paying the stripling’s rent and corralling the rent-collector at the same time. What is today? How long before the end of the month? Another week! A murrain on it, Comrade Windsor. Two murrains. This delay may undo us.”

But the days went by without any further movement on the part of the enemy. A strange quiet seemed to be brooding over the other camp. As a matter of fact, the sudden outbreak of active hostilities with the Table Hill contingent had had the effect of taking the minds of Spider Reilly and his warriors off Cosy Moments and its affairs, much as the unexpected appearance of a mad bull would make a man forget that he had come out butterfly-hunting. Psmith and Billy could wait; they were not likely to take the offensive; but the Table Hillites demanded instant attention.

War had broken out, as was usual between the gangs, in a somewhat tentative fashion at first sight. There had been sniping and skirmishes by the wayside, but as yet no pitched battle. The two armies were sparring for an opening.

The end of the week arrived, and Psmith and Billy, conducted by Master Maloney, made their way to Pleasant Street. To get there it was necessary to pass through a section of the enemy’s country; but the perilous passage was safely negotiated. The expedition reached its unsavoury goal intact.

The wop kid, whose name, it appeared, was Giuseppe Orloni, inhabited a small room at the very top of the building next to the one Psmith and Mike had visited on their first appearance in Pleasant Street. He was out when the party, led by Pugsy up dark stairs, arrived; and, on returning, seemed both surprised and alarmed to see visitors. Pugsy undertook to do the honours. Pugsy as interpreter was energetic but not wholly successful. He appeared to have a fixed idea that the Italian language was one easily mastered by the simple method of saying “da” instead of “the,” and tacking on a final “a” to any word that seemed to him to need one.

“Say, kid,” he began, “has da rent-a-man come yet-a?”

The black eyes of the wop kid clouded. He gesticulated, and said something in his native language.

“He hasn’t got next,” reported Master Maloney. “He can’t git on to me curves. Dese wop kids is all boneheads. Say, kid, look-a here.” He walked out of the room and closed the door; then, rapping on it smartly from the outside, re-entered and, assuming a look of extreme ferocity, stretched out his hand and thundered: “Unbelt-a! Slip-a me da stuff!”

The wop kid’s puzzlement became pathetic.

“This,” said Psmith, deeply interested, “is getting about as tense as anything I ever struck. Don’t give in, Comrade Maloney. Who knows but that you may yet win through? I fancy the trouble is that your too perfect Italian accent is making the youth homesick. Once more to the breach, Comrade Maloney.”

Master Maloney made a gesture of disgust. “I’m t’roo. Dese Dagoes makes me tired. Dey don’t know enough to go upstairs to take de Elevated. Beat it, you mutt,” he observed with moody displeasure to the wop kid, accompanying the words with a gesture which conveyed its own meaning. The wop kid, plainly glad to get away, slipped out of the door like a shadow.

Pugsy shrugged his shoulders.

“Gents,” he said resignedly, “it’s up to youse.”

“I fancy,” said Psmith, “that this is one of those moments when it is necessary for me to unlimber my Sherlock Holmes system. As thus. If the rent collector had been here, it is certain, I think, that Comrade Spaghetti, or whatever you said his name was, wouldn’t have been. That is to say, if the rent collector had called and found no money waiting for him, surely Comrade Spaghetti would have been out in the cold night instead of under his own rooftree. Do you follow me, Comrade Maloney?”

“That’s right,” said Billy Windsor. “Of course.”

“Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary,” murmured Psmith.

“So all we have to do is to sit here and wait.”

“All?” said Psmith sadly. “Surely it is enough. For of all the scaly localities I have struck this seems to me the scaliest. The architect of this Stately Home of America seems to have had a positive hatred for windows. His idea of ventilation was to leave a hole in the wall about the size of a lima bean and let the thing go at that. If our friend does not arrive shortly, I shall pull down the roof. Why, gadzooks! Not to mention stap my vitals! Isn’t that a trapdoor up there? Make a long-arm, Comrade Windsor.”

Billy got on a chair and pulled the bolt. The trapdoor opened downwards. It fell, disclosing a square of deep blue sky.

“Gum!” he said. “Fancy living in this atmosphere when you don’t have to. Fancy these fellows keeping that shut all the time.”

“I expect it is an acquired taste,” said Psmith, “like Limburger cheese. They don’t begin to appreciate air till it is thick enough to scoop chunks out of with a spoon. Then they get up on their hind legs and inflate their chests and say, ‘This is fine! This beats ozone hollow!’ Leave it open, Comrade Windsor. And now, as to the problem of dispensing with Comrade Maloney’s services?”

“Sure,” said Billy. “Beat it, Pugsy, my lad.”

Pugsy looked up, indignant.

“Beat it?” he queried.

“While your shoe leather’s good,” said Billy. “This is no place for a minister’s son. There may be a rough house in here any minute, and you would be in the way.”

“I want to stop and pipe de fun,” objected Master Maloney.

“Never mind.