Psmith, Journalist, P. G. Wodehouse [top 5 ebook reader .txt] 📗

did you wish to see me about, Comrade Repetto?”

Mr. Repetto’s reply was unintelligible.

Mr. Jarvis made a suggestion.

“Youse had better beat it,” he said.

Long Otto grunted sympathy with this advice.

“And youse had better go back to Spider Reilly,” continued Mr. Jarvis, “and tell him that there’s nothin’ doin’ in the way of rough house wit dis gent here.” He indicated Psmith, who bowed. “And you can tell de Spider,” went on Bat with growing ferocity, “dat next time he gits gay and starts in to shoot guys in me dance-joint I’ll bite de head off’n him. See? Does dat go? If he t’inks his little two-by-four gang can put it across de Groome Street, he can try. Dat’s right. An’ don’t fergit dis gent here and me is pals, and anyone dat starts anyt’ing wit dis gent is going to have to git busy wit me. Does dat go?”

Psmith coughed, and shot his cuffs.

“I do not know,” he said, in the manner of a chairman addressing a meeting, “that I have anything to add to the very well-expressed remarks of my friend, Comrade Jarvis. He has, in my opinion, covered the ground very thoroughly and satisfactorily. It now only remains for me to pass a vote of thanks to Comrade Jarvis and to declare this meeting at an end.”

“Beat it,” said Mr. Jarvis, pointing to the door.

The delegation then withdrew.

“I am very much obliged,” said Psmith, “for your courtly assistance, Comrade Jarvis. But for you I do not care to think with what a splash I might not have been immersed in the gumbo. Thank you, Comrade Jarvis. And you, Comrade Otto.”

“Aw chee!” said Mr. Jarvis, handsomely dismissing the matter. Mr. Otto kicked the leg of the table, and grunted.

For half an hour after the departure of the Three Pointers Psmith chatted amiably to his two assistants on matters of general interest. The exchange of ideas was somewhat one-sided, though Mr. Jarvis had one or two striking items of information to impart, notably some hints on the treatment of fits in kittens.

At the end of this period the conversation was once more interrupted by the sound of movements in the outer office.

“If dat’s dose stiffs come back⁠—” began Mr. Jarvis, reaching for his revolver.

“Stay your hand, Comrade Jarvis,” said Psmith as a sharp knock sounded on the door. “I do not think it can be our late friends. Comrade Repetto’s knowledge of the usages of polite society is too limited, I fancy, to prompt him to knock on doors. Come in.”

The door opened. It was not Mr. Repetto or his colleagues, but another old friend. No other, in fact, than Mr. Francis Parker, he who had come as an embassy from the man up top in the very beginning of affairs, and had departed, wrathful, mouthing declarations of war. As on his previous visit, he wore the dude suit, the shiny shoes, and the tall-shaped hat.

“Welcome, Comrade Parker,” said Psmith. “It is too long since we met. Comrade Jarvis I think you know. If I am right, that is to say, in supposing that it was you who approached him at an earlier stage in the proceedings with a view to engaging his sympathetic aid in the great work of putting Comrade Windsor and myself out of business. The gentleman on your left is Comrade Otto.”

Mr. Parker was looking at Bat in bewilderment. It was plain that he had not expected to find Psmith entertaining such company.

“Did you come purely for friendly chitchat, Comrade Parker,” inquired Psmith, “or was there, woven into the social motives of your call, a desire to talk business of any kind?”

“My business is private. I didn’t expect a crowd.”

“Especially of ancient friends such as Comrade Jarvis. Well, well, you are breaking up a most interesting little symposium. Comrade Jarvis, I think I shall be forced to postpone our very entertaining discussion of fits in kittens till a more opportune moment. Meanwhile, as Comrade Parker wishes to talk over some private business⁠—”

Bat Jarvis rose.

“I’ll beat it,” he said.

“Reluctantly, I hope, Comrade Jarvis. As reluctantly as I hint that I would be alone. If I might drop in some time at your private residence?”

“Sure,” said Mr. Jarvis warmly.

“Excellent. Well, for the present, goodbye. And many thanks for your invaluable cooperation.”

“Aw chee!” said Mr. Jarvis.

“And now, Comrade Parker,” said Psmith, when the door had closed, “let her rip. What can I do for you?”

“You seem to be all to the merry with Bat Jarvis,” observed Mr. Parker.

“The phrase exactly expresses it, Comrade Parker. I am as a tortoiseshell kitten to him. But, touching your business?”

Mr. Parker was silent for a moment.

“See here,” he said at last, “aren’t you going to be good? Say, what’s the use of keeping on at this fool game? Why not quit it before you get hurt?”

Psmith smoothed his waistcoat reflectively.

“I may be wrong, Comrade Parker,” he said, “but it seems to me that the chances of my getting hurt are not so great as you appear to imagine. The person who is in danger of getting hurt seems to me to be the gentleman whose name is on that paper which is now in my possession.”

“Where is it?” demanded Mr. Parker quickly.

Psmith eyed him benevolently.

“If you will pardon the expression, Comrade Parker,” he said, “ ‘Aha!’ Meaning that I propose to keep that information to myself.”

Mr. Parker shrugged his shoulders.

“You know your own business, I guess.”

Psmith nodded.

“You are absolutely correct, Comrade Parker. I do. Now that Cosy Moments has our excellent friend Comrade Jarvis on its side, are you not to a certain extent among the Blenheim Oranges? I think so. I think so.”

As he spoke there was a rap at the door. A small boy entered. In his hand was a scrap of paper.

“Guy asks me give dis to gazebo named Smiff,” he said.

“There are many gazebos of that name, my lad. One of whom I am which, as Artemus Ward was wont to observe. Possibly the missive is for me.”

He took the paper. It was dated from an address on the East Side.

“Dear Smith,” it ran. “Come here as