Psmith, Journalist

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE HONEYED WORD

  Master Maloney's statement that "about 'steen visitors" had arrivedin addition to Messrs. Asher, Waterman, and the Rev. Philpottsproved to have been due to a great extent to a somewhat feverishimagination. There were only five men in the room.

  As Psmith entered, every eye was turned upon him. To an outsidespectator he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressedDaniel introduced into a den of singularly irritable lions. Fivepairs of eyes were smouldering with a long-nursed resentment. Fivebrows were corrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was thesimple majesty of Psmith's demeanour that for a moment there wasdead silence. Not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped inthought, to the editorial chair. Stillness brooded over the room ashe carefully dusted that piece of furniture, and, having done so tohis satisfaction, hitched up the knees of his trousers and sankgracefully into a sitting position.

  This accomplished, he looked up and started. He gazed round theroom.

  "Ha! I am observed!" he murmured.

  The words broke the spell. Instantly, the five visitors burstsimultaneously into speech.

  "Are you the acting editor of this paper?"

  "I wish to have a word with you, sir."

  "Mr. Windsor, I presume?"

  "Pardon me!"

  "I should like a few moments' conversation."

  The start was good and even; but the gentleman who said "Pardonme!" necessarily finished first with the rest nowhere.

  Psmith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gazethrough his eye-glass.

  "Are you Mr. Windsor, sir, may I ask?" inquired the favoured one.

  The others paused for the reply.

  "Alas! no," said Psmith with manly regret.

  "Then who are you?"

  "I am Psmith."

  There was a pause.

  "Where is Mr. Windsor?"

  "He is, I fancy, champing about forty cents' worth of lunch at someneighbouring hostelry."

  "When will he return?"

  "Anon. But how much anon I fear I cannot say."

  The visitors looked at each other.

  "This is exceedingly annoying," said the man who had said "Pardonme!" "I came for the express purpose of seeing Mr. Windsor."

  "So did I," chimed in the rest. "Same here. So did I."

  Psmith bowed courteously.

  "Comrade Windsor's loss is my gain. Is there anything I can do foryou?"

  "Are you on the editorial staff of this paper?"

  "I am acting sub-editor. The work is not light," added Psmithgratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round, 'Can Psmith getthrough it all? Will his strength support his unquenchable spirit?'But I stagger on. I do not repine."

  "Then maybe you can tell me what all this means?" said a smallround gentleman who so far had done only chorus work.

  "If it is in my power to do so, it shall be done, Comrade--I havenot the pleasure of your name."

  "My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whosename you doubtless know."

  "Correct me if I am wrong," said Psmith, "but I should say it,also, was Waterman."

  "Luella Granville Waterman, sir," said the little man proudly.Psmith removed his eye-glass, polished it, and replaced it in hiseye. He felt that he must run no risk of not seeing clearly thehusband of one who, in his opinion, stood alone in literary circlesas a purveyor of sheer bilge.

  "My wife," continued the little man, producing an envelopeand handing it to Psmith, "has received this extraordinarycommunication from a man signing himself W. Windsor. We areboth at a loss to make head or tail of it."

  Psmith was reading the letter.

  "It seems reasonably clear to me," he said.

  "It is an outrage. My wife has been a contributor to this journalfrom its foundation. Her work has given every satisfaction to Mr.Wilberfloss. And now, without the slightest warning, comes thisperemptory dismissal from W. Windsor. Who is W. Windsor? Where isMr. Wilberfloss?"

  The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they allwanted to know: Who was W. Windsor? Where was Mr. Wilberfloss?

  "I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts, sir," said a cadaverous-lookingman with pale blue eyes and a melancholy face. "I havecontributed 'Moments of Meditation' to this journal for a veryconsiderable period of time."

  "I have read your page with the keenest interest," said Psmith. "Imay be wrong, but yours seems to me work which the world will notwillingly let die."

  The Reverend Edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile.

  "And yet," continued Psmith, "I gather that Comrade Windsor, on theother hand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease. It is thesestrange contradictions, these clashings of personal taste, whichmake up what we call life. Here we have, on the one hand--"

  A man with a face like a walnut, who had hitherto lurked almostunseen behind a stout person in a serge suit, bobbed into the open,and spoke his piece.

  "Where's this fellow Windsor? W. Windsor. That's the man we wantto see. I've been working for this paper without a break, exceptwhen I had the mumps, for four years, and I've reason to know thatmy page was as widely read and appreciated as any in New York. Andnow up comes this Windsor fellow, if you please, and tells me in somany words the paper's got no use for me."

  "These are life's tragedies," murmured Psmith.

  "What's he mean by it? That's what I want to know. And that's whatthese gentlemen want to know--See here--"

  "I am addressing--?" said Psmith.

  "Asher's my name. B. Henderson Asher. I write 'Moments of Mirth.'"

  A look almost of excitement came into Psmith's face, such a look asa visitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with somegreat national monument. That he should be privileged to look uponthe author of "Moments of Mirth" in the flesh, face to face, wasalmost too much.

  "Comrade Asher," he said reverently, "may I shake your hand?"

  The other extended his hand with some suspicion.

  "Your 'Moments of Mirth,'" said Psmith, shaking it, "havefrequently reconciled me to the toothache."

  He reseated himself.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "this is a painful case. The circumstances,as you will readily admit when you have heard all, are peculiar.You have asked me where Mr. Wilberfloss is. I do not know."

  "You don't know!" exclaimed Mr. Waterman.

  "I don't know. You don't know. They," said Psmith, indicating therest with a wave of the hand, "don't know. Nobody knows. Hislocality is as hard to ascertain as that of a black cat in acoal-cellar on a moonless night. Shortly before I joined thisjournal, Mr. Wilberfloss, by his doctor's orders, started out on aholiday, leaving no address. No letters were to be forwarded. Hewas to enjoy complete rest. Where is he now? Who shall say?Possibly legging it down some rugged slope in the Rockies, with twobears and a wild cat in earnest pursuit. Possibly in the midst ofsome Florida everglade, making a noise like a piece of meat inorder to snare crocodiles. Possibly in Canada, baiting moose-traps.We have no data."

  Silent consternation prevailed among the audience. Finally the Rev.Edwin T. Philpotts was struck with an idea.

  "Where is Mr. White?" he asked.

  The point was well received.

  "Yes, where's Mr. Benjamin White?" chorused the rest.

  Psmith shook his head.

  "In Europe. I cannot say more."

  The audience's consternation deepened.

  "Then, do you mean to say," demanded Mr. Asher, "that this fellowWindsor's the boss here, that what he says goes?"

  Psmith bowed.

  "With your customary clear-headedness, Comrade Asher, you have gothome on the bull's-eye first pop. Comrade Windsor is indeed theboss. A man of intensely masterful character, he will brook noopposition. I am powerless to sway him. Suggestions from myself asto the conduct of the paper would infuriate him. He believes thatradical changes are necessary in the programme of _Cosy Moments_, andhe means to put them through if it snows. Doubtless he would gladlyconsider your work
if it fitted in with his ideas. A snappy accountof a glove-fight, a spine-shaking word-picture of a railway smash,or something on those lines, would be welcomed. But--"

  "I have never heard of such a thing," said Mr. Waterman indignantly.

  Psmith sighed.

  "Some time ago," he said, "--how long it seems!--I remember sayingto a young friend of mine of the name of Spiller, 'Comrade Spiller,never confuse the unusual with the impossible.' It is my guidingrule in life. It is unusual for the substitute-editor of a weeklypaper to do a Captain Kidd act and take entire command of thejournal on his own account; but is it impossible? Alas no. ComradeWindsor has done it. That is where you, Comrade Asher, and you,gentlemen, have landed yourselves squarely in the broth. You haveconfused the unusual with the impossible."

  "But what is to be done?" cried Mr. Asher.

  "I fear that there is nothing to be done, except wait. The present_regime_ is but an experiment. It may be that when ComradeWilberfloss, having dodged the bears and eluded the wild cat,returns to his post at the helm of this journal, he may decide notto continue on the lines at present mapped out. He should be backin about ten weeks."

  "Ten weeks!"

  "I fancy that was to be the duration of his holiday. Till then myadvice to you gentlemen is to wait. You may rely on me to keep awatchful eye upon your interests. When your thoughts tend to take agloomy turn, say to yourselves, 'All is well. Psmith is keeping awatchful eye upon our interests.'"

  "All the same, I should like to see this W. Windsor," said Mr.Asher.

  Psmith shook his head.

  "I shouldn't," he said. "I speak in your best interests. ComradeWindsor is a man of the fiercest passions. He cannot brookinterference. Were you to question the wisdom of his plans, thereis no knowing what might not happen. He would be the first toregret any violent action, when once he had cooled off, but wouldthat be any consolation to his victim? I think not. Of course, ifyou wish it, I could arrange a meeting--"

  Mr. Asher said no, he thought it didn't matter.

  "I guess I can wait," he said.

  "That," said Psmith approvingly, "is the right spirit. Wait. Thatis the watch-word. And now," he added, rising, "I wonder if a bitof lunch somewhere might not be a good thing? We have had aninteresting but fatiguing little chat. Our tissues requirerestoring. If you gentlemen would care to join me--"

  Ten minutes later the company was seated in complete harmony rounda table at the Knickerbocker. Psmith, with the dignified bonhomieof a seigneur of the old school, was ordering the wine; while B.Henderson Asher, brimming over with good-humour, was relating to anattentive circle an anecdote which should have appeared in his nextinstalment of "Moments of Mirth."