Psmith, Journalist

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE FIRST BATTLE

  The promptitude and despatch with which the Kid had attended to thegentleman with the black-jack had not been without its effect onthe followers of the stricken one. Physical courage is not anoutstanding quality of the New York hooligan. His personalpreference is for retreat when it is a question of unpleasantnesswith a stranger. And, in any case, even when warring amongthemselves, the gangs exhibit a lively distaste for the hard knocksof hand-to-hand fighting. Their chosen method of battling is to liedown on the ground and shoot. This is more suited to theirphysique, which is rarely great. The gangsman, as a rule, isstunted and slight of build.

  The Kid's rapid work on the present occasion created a good deal ofconfusion. There was no doubt that much had been hoped for fromspeedy attack. Also, the generalship of the expedition had been inthe hands of the fallen warrior. His removal from the sphere ofactive influence had left the party without a head. And, to add totheir discomfiture, they could not account for the Kid. Psmith theyknew, and Billy Windsor they knew, but who was this stranger withthe square shoulders and the upper-cut that landed like acannon-ball? Something approaching a panic prevailed among thegang.

  It was not lessened by the behaviour of the intended victims. BillyWindsor, armed with the big stick which he had bought after thevisit of Mr. Parker, was the first to join issue. He had been a fewpaces behind the others during the black-jack incident; but, darkas it was, he had seen enough to show him that the occasion was, asPsmith would have said, one for the Shrewd Blow rather than theProlonged Parley. With a whoop of the purest Wyoming brand, hesprang forward into the confused mass of the enemy. A moment laterPsmith and the Kid followed, and there raged over the body of thefallen leader a battle of Homeric type.

  It was not a long affair. The rules and conditions governing theencounter offended the delicate sensibilities of the gang. Likeartists who feel themselves trammelled by distasteful conventions,they were damped and could not do themselves justice. Their fortewas long-range fighting with pistols. With that they felt _enrapport_. But this vulgar brawling in the darkness with muscularopponents who hit hard and often with sticks and hands wasdistasteful to them. They could not develop any enthusiasm for it.They carried pistols, but it was too dark and the combatants weretoo entangled to allow them to use these. Besides, this was not thedear, homely old Bowery, where a gentleman may fire a pistolwithout exciting vulgar comment. It was up-town, where curiouscrowds might collect at the first shot.

  There was but one thing to be done. Reluctant as they might be toabandon their fallen leader, they must tear themselves away.Already they were suffering grievously from the stick, theblack-jack, and the lightning blows of the Kid. For a moment theyhung, wavering; then stampeded in half a dozen differentdirections, melting into the night whence they had come.

  Billy, full of zeal, pursued one fugitive some fifty yards down thestreet, but his quarry, exhibiting a rare turn of speed, easilyoutstripped him.

  He came back, panting, to find Psmith and the Kid examining thefallen leader of the departed ones with the aid of a match, whichwent out just as Billy arrived.

  "It is our friend of the earlier part of the evening, ComradeWindsor," said Psmith. "The merchant with whom we hob-nobbed on ourway to the Highfield. In a moment of imprudence I mentioned _CosyMoments_. I fancy that this was his first intimation that we were inthe offing. His visit to the Highfield was paid, I think, purelyfrom sport-loving motives. He was not on our trail. He came merelyto see if Comrade Brady was proficient with his hands. Subsequentevents must have justified our fighting editor in his eyes. It seemsto be a moot point whether he will ever recover consciousness."

  "Mighty good thing if he doesn't," said Billy uncharitably.

  "From one point of view, Comrade Windsor, yes. Such an event wouldundoubtedly be an excellent thing for the public good. But from ourpoint of view, it would be as well if he were to sit up and takenotice. We could ascertain from him who he is and which particularcollection of horny-handeds he represents. Light another match,Comrade Brady."

  The Kid did so. The head of it fell off and dropped upon theup-turned face. The hooligan stirred, shook himself, sat up, andbegan to mutter something in a foggy voice.

  "He's still woozy," said the Kid.

  "Still--what exactly, Comrade Brady?"

  "In the air," explained the Kid. "Bats in the belfry. Dizzy. Seewhat I mean? It's often like that when a feller puts one in with abit of weight behind it just where that one landed. Gum! Iremember when I fought Martin Kelly; I was only starting to learnthe game then. Martin and me was mixing it good and hard all overthe ring, when suddenly he puts over a stiff one right on thepoint. What do you think I done? Fall down and take the count? Noton your life. I just turns round and walks straight out of thering to my dressing-room. Willie Harvey, who was seconding me,comes tearing in after me, and finds me getting into my clothes.'What's doing, Kid?' he asks. 'I'm going fishin', Willie,' I says.'It's a lovely day.' 'You've lost the fight,' he says. 'Fight?'says I. 'What fight?' See what I mean? I hadn't a notion of whathad happened. It was a half an hour and more before I couldremember a thing."

  During this reminiscence, the man on the ground had contrived toclear his mind of the mistiness induced by the Kid's upper-cut. Thefirst sign he showed of returning intelligence was a sudden dashfor safety up the road. But he had not gone five yards when he satdown limply.

  The Kid was inspired to further reminiscence. "Guess he's feelingpretty poor," he said. "It's no good him trying to run for a whileafter he's put his chin in the way of a real live one. I rememberwhen Joe Peterson put me out, way back when I was new to thegame--it was the same year I fought Martin Kelly. He had an awfulpunch, had old Joe, and he put me down and out in the eighth round.After the fight they found me on the fire-escape outside mydressing-room. 'Come in, Kid,' says they. 'It's all right, chaps,'I says, 'I'm dying.' Like that. 'It's all right, chaps, I'm dying.'Same with this guy. See what I mean?"

  They formed a group about the fallen black-jack expert.

  "Pardon us," said Psmith courteously, "for breaking in upon yourreverie; but, if you could spare us a moment of your valuable time,there are one or two things which we should like to know."

  "Sure thing," agreed the Kid.

  "In the first place," continued Psmith, "would it be betrayingprofessional secrets if you told us which particular bevy ofenergetic sandbaggers it is to which you are attached?"

  "Gent," explained the Kid, "wants to know what's your gang."

  The man on the ground muttered something that to Psmith and Billywas unintelligible.

  "It would be a charity," said the former, "if some philanthropistwould give this blighter elocution lessons. Can you interpret,Comrade Brady?"

  "Says it's the Three Points," said the Kid.

  "The Three Points? Let me see, is that Dude Dawson, ComradeWindsor, or the other gentleman?"

  "It's Spider Reilly. Dude Dawson runs the Table Hill crowd."

  "Perhaps this _is_ Spider Reilly?"

  "Nope," said the Kid. "I know the Spider. This ain't him. This issome other mutt."

  "Which other mutt in particular?" asked Psmith. "Try and find out,Comrade Brady. You seem to be able to understand what he says. Tome, personally, his remarks sound like the output of a gramophonewith a hot potato in its mouth."

  "Says he's Jack Repetto," announced the interpreter.

  There was another interruption at this moment. The bashful Mr.Repetto, plainly a man who was not happy in the society ofstrangers, made another attempt to withdraw. Reaching out a pair oflean hands, he pulled the Kid's legs from under him with a swiftjerk, and, wriggling to his feet, started off again down the road.Once more, however, desire outran performance. He got as far as thenearest street-lamp, but no farther. The giddiness seemed toovercome him again, for he grasped the lamp-post, and, slidingslowly to the ground, sat there motionless.

  The Kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to bewrathful an
d vindictive. He was the first of the three to reachthe elusive Mr. Repetto, and if that worthy had happened to bestanding instead of sitting it might have gone hard with him. Butthe Kid was not the man to attack a fallen foe. He contentedhimself with brushing the dust off his person and addressing arichly abusive flow of remarks to Mr. Repetto.

  Under the rays of the lamp it was possible to discern more closelythe features of the black-jack exponent. There was a subtle butnoticeable resemblance to those of Mr. Bat Jarvis. Apparently thelatter's oiled forelock, worn low over the forehead, was more aconcession to the general fashion prevailing in gang circles thanan expression of personal taste. Mr. Repetto had it, too. In hiscase it was almost white, for the fallen warrior was an albino. Hiseyes, which were closed, had white lashes and were set as neartogether as Nature had been able to manage without actually runningthem into one another. His under-lip protruded and drooped. Lookingat him, one felt instinctively that no judging committee of abeauty contest would hesitate a moment before him.

  It soon became apparent that the light of the lamp, thoughbestowing the doubtful privilege of a clearer view of Mr. Repetto'sface, held certain disadvantages. Scarcely had the staff of _CosyMoments_ reached the faint yellow pool of light, in the centre ofwhich Mr. Repetto reclined, than, with a suddenness which causedthem to leap into the air, there sounded from the darkness down theroad the _crack-crack-crack_ of a revolver. Instantly from theopposite direction came other shots. Three bullets flicked groovesin the roadway almost at Billy's feet. The Kid gave a sudden howl.Psmith's hat, suddenly imbued with life, sprang into the air andvanished, whirling into the night.

  The thought did not come to them consciously at the moment, therebeing little time to think, but it was evident as soon as, divingout of the circle of light into the sheltering darkness, theycrouched down and waited for the next move, that a somewhat skilfulambush had been effected. The other members of the gang, who hadfled with such remarkable speed, had by no means been eliminatedaltogether from the game. While the questioning of Mr. Repetto hadbeen in progress, they had crept back, unperceived except by Mr.Repetto himself. It being too dark for successful shooting, it hadbecome Mr. Repetto's task to lure his captors into the light, whichhe had accomplished with considerable skill.

  For some minutes the battle halted. There was dead silence. Thecircle of light was empty now. Mr. Repetto had vanished. Atentative shot from nowhere ripped through the air close to wherePsmith lay flattened on the pavement. And then the pavement beganto vibrate and give out a curious resonant sound. To Psmith itconveyed nothing, but to the opposing army it meant much. They knewit for what it was. Somewhere--it might be near or far--a policemanhad heard the shots, and was signalling for help to other policemenalong the line by beating on the flag-stones with his night-stick,the New York constable's substitute for the London police-whistle.

  The noise grew, filling the still air. From somewhere down the roadsounded the ring of running feet.

  "De cops!" cried a voice. "Beat it!"

  Next moment the night was full of clatter. The gang was "beatingit."

  Psmith rose to his feet and dusted his clothes ruefully. For thefirst time he realised the horrors of war. His hat had gone forever. His trousers could never be the same again after their closeacquaintance with the pavement.

  The rescue party was coming up at the gallop.

  The New York policeman may lack the quiet dignity of his Londonrival, but he is a hustler.

  "What's doing?"

  "Nothing now," said the disgusted voice of Billy Windsor from theshadows. "They've beaten it."

  The circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a generalrendezvous. Three grey-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men withkeen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolver in one hand,night-stick in the other. Psmith, hatless and dusty, joined them.Billy Windsor and the Kid, the latter bleeding freely from his leftear, the lobe of which had been chipped by a bullet, were the lastto arrive.

  "What's bin the rough house?" inquired one of the policemen, mildlyinterested.

  "Do you know a sportsman of the name of Repetto?" inquired Psmith.

  "Jack Repetto! Sure."

  "He belongs to the Three Points," said another intelligent officer,as one naming some fashionable club.

  "When next you see him," said Psmith, "I should be obliged if youwould use your authority to make him buy me a new hat. I could dowith another pair of trousers, too; but I will not press thetrousers. A new hat, is, however, essential. Mine has a six-inchhole in it."

  "Shot at you, did they?" said one of the policemen, as who shouldsay, "Dash the lads, they're always up to some of their larks."

  "Shot at us!" burst out the ruffled Kid. "What do you think's binhappening? Think an aeroplane ran into my ear and took half of itoff? Think the noise was somebody opening bottles of pop? Thinkthose guys that sneaked off down the road was just training for aMarathon?"

  "Comrade Brady," said Psmith, "touches the spot. He--"

  "Say, are you Kid Brady?" inquired one of the officers. For thefirst time the constabulary had begun to display any realanimation.

  "Reckoned I'd seen you somewhere!" said another. "You lickedCyclone Al. all right, Kid, I hear."

  "And who but a bone-head thought he wouldn't?" demanded the thirdwarmly. "He could whip a dozen Cyclone Al.'s in the same eveningwith his eyes shut."

  "He's the next champeen," admitted the first speaker.

  "If he puts it over Jimmy Garvin," argued the second.

  "Jimmy Garvin!" cried the third. "He can whip twenty Jimmy Garvinswith his feet tied. I tell you--"

  "I am loath," observed Psmith, "to interrupt this very impressivebrain-barbecue, but, trivial as it may seem to you, to me there isa certain interest in this other little matter of my ruined hat. Iknow that it may strike you as hypersensitive of us to protestagainst being riddled with bullets, but--"

  "Well, what's bin doin'?" inquired the Force. It was a nuisance,this perpetual harping on trifles when the deep question of thelight-weight Championship of the World was under discussion, butthe sooner it was attended to, the sooner it would be over.

  Billy Windsor undertook to explain.

  "The Three Points laid for us," he said. "Jack Repetto was bossingthe crowd. I don't know who the rest were. The Kid put one over onto Jack Repetto's chin, and we were asking him a few questions whenthe rest came back, and started into shooting. Then we got to coverquick, and you came up and they beat it."

  "That," said Psmith, nodding, "is a very fair _precis_ of theevening's events. We should like you, if you will be so good, tocorral this Comrade Repetto, and see that he buys me a new hat."

  "We'll round Jack up," said one of the policemen indulgently.

  "Do it nicely," urged Psmith. "Don't go hurting his feelings."

  The second policeman gave it as his opinion that Jack was gettingtoo gay. The third policeman conceded this. Jack, he said, hadshown signs for some time past of asking for it in the neck. It wasan error on Jack's part, he gave his hearers to understand, toassume that the lid was completely off the great city of New York.

  "Too blamed fresh he's gettin'," the trio agreed. They could nothave been more disapproving if they had been prefects at Haileyburyand Mr. Repetto a first-termer who had been detected in the act ofwearing his cap on the back of his head.

  They seemed to think it was too bad of Jack.

  "The wrath of the Law," said Psmith, "is very terrible. We willleave the matter, then, in your hands. In the meantime, we shouldbe glad if you would direct us to the nearest Subway station. Justat the moment, the cheerful lights of the Great White Way are whatI seem to chiefly need."