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

had long been convinced that about the nearest approach to the perfect job in this world, where good jobs are so hard to acquire, was to own a paper. All you had to do, once you had secured your paper, was to sit back and watch the other fellows work, and from time to time forward big cheques to the bank. Nothing could be more nicely attuned to the tastes of a Shropshire Psmith. The glimpses I was enabled to get of the workings of this little journal gave me the impression that Comrade White was not attached with any paternal fervour to Cosy Moments. He regarded it, I deduced, not so much as a lifework as in the light of an investment. I assumed that Comrade White had his price, and wrote to my father, who was visiting Carlsbad at the moment, to ascertain what that price might be. He cabled it to me. It was reasonable. Now it so happens that an uncle of mine some years ago left me a considerable number of simoleons, and though I shall not be legally entitled actually to close in on the opulence for a matter of nine months or so, I anticipated that my father would have no objection to staking me to the necessary amount on the security of my little bit of money. My father has spent some time of late hurling me at various professions, and we had agreed some time ago that the Law was to be my long suit. Paper-owning, however, may be combined with being Lord Chancellor, and I knew he would have no objection to my being a Napoleon of the Press on this side. So we closed with Comrade White, and⁠—”

There was a knock at the door, and Master Maloney entered with a card.

“Guy’s waiting outside,” he said.

“Mr. Stewart Waring,” read Psmith. “Comrade Maloney, do you know what Muhammad did when the mountain would not come to him?”

“Search me,” said the office-boy indifferently.

“He went to the mountain. It was a wise thing to do. As a general rule in life you can’t beat it. Remember that, Comrade Maloney.”

“Sure,” said Pugsy. “Shall I send the guy in?”

“Surest thing you know, Comrade Maloney.”

He turned to the assembled company.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “you know how I hate to have to send you away, but would you mind withdrawing in good order? A somewhat delicate and private interview is in the offing. Comrade Jarvis, we will meet anon. Your services to the paper have been greatly appreciated. If I might drop in some afternoon and inspect the remainder of your zoo⁠—?”

“Any time you’re down Groome Street way. Glad.”

“I will make a point of it. Comrade Wilberfloss, would you mind remaining? As editor of this journal, you should be present. If the rest of you would look in about this time tomorrow⁠—Show Mr. Waring in, Comrade Maloney.”

He took a seat.

“We are now, Comrade Wilberfloss,” he said, “at a crisis in the affairs of this journal, but I fancy we shall win through.”

The door opened, and Pugsy announced Mr. Waring.

The owner of the Pleasant Street Tenements was of what is usually called commanding presence. He was tall and broad, and more than a little stout. His face was clean-shaven and curiously expressionless. Bushy eyebrows topped a pair of cold grey eyes. He walked into the room with the air of one who is not wont to apologise for existing. There are some men who seem to fill any room in which they may be. Mr. Waring was one of these.

He set his hat down on the table without speaking. After which he looked at Mr. Wilberfloss, who shrank a little beneath his gaze.

Psmith had risen to greet him.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said.

“I prefer to stand.”

“Just as you wish. This is Liberty Hall.”

Mr. Waring again glanced at Mr. Wilberfloss.

“What I have to say is private,” he said.

“All is well,” said Psmith reassuringly. “It is no stranger that you see before you, no mere irresponsible lounger who has butted in by chance. That is Comrade J. Fillken Wilberfloss, the editor of this journal.”

“The editor? I understood⁠—”

“I know what you would say. You have Comrade Windsor in your mind. He was merely acting as editor while the chief was away hunting sand-eels in the jungles of Texas. In his absence Comrade Windsor and I did our best to keep the old journal booming along, but it lacked the master-hand. But now all is well: Comrade Wilberfloss is once more doing stunts at the old stand. You may speak as freely before him as you would before well, let us say Comrade Parker.”

“Who are you, then, if this gentleman is the editor?”

“I am the proprietor.”

“I understood that a Mr. White was the proprietor.”

“Not so,” said Psmith. “There was a time when that was the case, but not now. Things move so swiftly in New York journalistic matters that a man may well be excused for not keeping abreast of the times, especially one who, like yourself, is interested in politics and house-ownership rather than in literature. Are you sure you won’t sit down?”

Mr. Waring brought his hand down with a bang on the table, causing Mr. Wilberfloss to leap a clear two inches from his chair.

“What are you doing it for?” he demanded explosively. “I tell you, you had better quit it. It isn’t healthy.”

Psmith shook his head.

“You are merely stating in other⁠—and, if I may say so, inferior⁠—words what Comrade Parker said to us. I did not object to giving up valuable time to listen to Comrade Parker. He is a fascinating conversationalist, and it was a privilege to hobnob with him. But if you are merely intending to cover the ground covered by him, I fear I must remind you that this is one of our busy days. Have you no new light to fling upon the subject?”

Mr. Waring wiped his forehead. He was playing a lost game, and he was not the sort of man who plays lost games well. The Waring type is dangerous when it is