AT "THE GARDENIA"
"It would ill beseem me, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith,
thoughtfully sipping his coffee, "to run down the metropolis of a
great and friendly nation, but candour compels me to state that New
York is in some respects a singularly blighted town."
"What's the matter with it?" asked Mike.
"Too decorous, Comrade Jackson. I came over here principally, it is
true, to be at your side, should you be in any way persecuted by
scoundrels. But at the same time I confess that at the back of my
mind there lurked a hope that stirring adventures might come my
way. I had heard so much of the place. Report had it that an
earnest seeker after amusement might have a tolerably spacious rag
in this modern Byzantium. I thought that a few weeks here might
restore that keen edge to my nervous system which the languor of
the past term had in a measure blunted. I wished my visit to be a
tonic rather than a sedative. I anticipated that on my return the
cry would go round Cambridge, 'Psmith has been to New York. He is
full of oats. For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of
Paradise. He is hot stuff. Rah!' But what do we find?"
He paused, and lit a cigarette.
"What do we find?" he asked again.
"I don't know," said Mike. "What?"
"A very judicious query, Comrade Jackson. What, indeed? We find a
town very like London. A quiet, self-respecting town, admirable to
the apostle of social reform, but disappointing to one who, like
myself, arrives with a brush and a little bucket of red paint, all
eager for a treat. I have been here a week, and I have not seen a
single citizen clubbed by a policeman. No negroes dance cake-walks
in the street. No cow-boy has let off his revolver at random in
Broadway. The cables flash the message across the ocean, 'Psmith is
losing his illusions.'"
Mike had come to America with a team of the M.C.C. which was
touring the cricket-playing section of the United States. Psmith
had accompanied him in a private capacity. It was the end of their
first year at Cambridge, and Mike, with a century against Oxford to
his credit, had been one of the first to be invited to join the
tour. Psmith, who had played cricket in a rather desultory way at
the University, had not risen to these heights. He had merely taken
the opportunity of Mike's visit to the other side to accompany him.
Cambridge had proved pleasant to Psmith, but a trifle quiet. He
had welcomed the chance of getting a change of scene.
So far the visit had failed to satisfy him. Mike, whose tastes in
pleasure were simple, was delighted with everything. The cricket so
far had been rather of the picnic order, but it was very pleasant;
and there was no limit to the hospitality with which the visitors
were treated. It was this more than anything which had caused
Psmith's grave disapproval of things American. He was not a member
of the team, so that the advantages of the hospitality did not
reach him. He had all the disadvantages. He saw far too little of
Mike. When he wished to consult his confidential secretary and
adviser on some aspect of Life, that invaluable official was
generally absent at dinner with the rest of the team. To-night was
one of the rare occasions when Mike could get away. Psmith was
becoming bored. New York is a better city than London to be alone
in, but it is never pleasant to be alone in any big city.
As they sat discussing New York's shortcomings over their coffee, a
young man passed them, carrying a basket, and seated himself at the
next table. He was a tall, loose-jointed young man, with unkempt
hair.
A waiter made an ingratiating gesture towards the basket, but the
young man stopped him. "Not on your life, sonny," he said. "This
stays right here." He placed it carefully on the floor beside his
chair, and proceeded to order dinner.
Psmith watched him thoughtfully.
"I have a suspicion, Comrade Jackson," he said, "that this will
prove to be a somewhat stout fellow. If possible, we will engage
him in conversation. I wonder what he's got in the basket. I must
get my Sherlock Holmes system to work. What is the most likely
thing for a man to have in a basket? You would reply, in your
unthinking way, 'sandwiches.' Error. A man with a basketful of
sandwiches does not need to dine at restaurants. We must try
again."
The young man at the next table had ordered a jug of milk to be
accompanied by a saucer. These having arrived, he proceeded to
lift the basket on to his lap, pour the milk into the saucer, and
remove the lid from the basket. Instantly, with a yell which made
the young man's table the centre of interest to all the diners, a
large grey cat shot up like a rocket, and darted across the room.
Psmith watched with silent interest.
It is hard to astonish the waiters at a New York restaurant, but
when the cat performed this feat there was a squeal of surprise all
round the room. Waiters rushed to and fro, futile but energetic.
The cat, having secured a strong strategic position on the top of a
large oil-painting which hung on the far wall, was expressing loud
disapproval of the efforts of one of the waiters to drive it from
its post with a walking-stick. The young man, seeing these
manoeuvres, uttered a wrathful shout, and rushed to the rescue.
"Comrade Jackson," said Psmith, rising, "we must be in this."
When they arrived on the scene of hostilities, the young man had
just possessed himself of the walking-stick, and was deep in a
complex argument with the head-waiter on the ethics of the matter.
The head-waiter, a stout impassive German, had taken his stand on a
point of etiquette. "Id is," he said, "to bring gats into der
grill-room vorbidden. No gendleman would gats into der grill-room
bring. Der gendleman--"
The young man meanwhile was making enticing sounds, to which the
cat was maintaining an attitude of reserved hostility. He turned
furiously on the head-waiter.
"For goodness' sake," he cried, "can't you see the poor brute's
scared stiff? Why don't you clear your gang of German comedians
away, and give her a chance to come down?"
"Der gendleman--" argued the head-waiter.
Psmith stepped forward and touched him on the arm.
"May I have a word with you in private?"
"Zo?"
Psmith drew him away.
"You don't know who that is?" he whispered, nodding towards the
young man.
"No gendleman he is," asserted the head-waiter. "Der gendleman
would not der gat into--"
Psmith shook his head pityingly.
"These petty matters of etiquette are not for his Grace--but, hush,
he wishes to preserve his incognito."
"Ingognito?"
"You understand. You are a man of the world, Comrade--may I call
you Freddie? You understand, Comrade Freddie, that in a man in his
Grace's position a few little eccentricities may be pardoned. You
follow me, Frederick?"
The head-waiter's eye rested upon the young man with a new interest
and respect.
"He is noble?" he inquired with awe.
"He is here strictly incognito, you understand," said Psmith
warningly. The head-waiter nodded.
The young man meanwhile had broken down the cat's reserve, and
was now standing with her in his arms, apparently anxious to
fight all-comers in her defence. The head-waiter approached
deferentially.
"Der gendleman," he said, indicating Psmith, who beamed in a
friendly manner through his eye-glass, "haf everything exblained.
All will now quite satisfactory be."
The young man looked inquiringly at Psmith, who winked
encouragingly. The head-waiter bowed.
"Let me present Comrade Jackson," said Psmith, "the pet of our
English Smart Set. I am Psmith, one of the Shropshire Psmiths. This
is a great moment. Shall we be moving back? We were about to order
a second instalment of coffee, to correct the effects of a
fatiguing day. Perhaps you would care to join us?"
"Sure," said the alleged duke.
"This," said Psmith, when they were seated, and the head-waiter had
ceased to hover, "is a great meeting. I was complaining with some
acerbity to Comrade Jackson, before you introduced your very
interesting performing-animal speciality, that things in New York
were too quiet, too decorous. I have an inkling, Comrade--"
"Windsor's my name."
"I have an inkling, Comrade Windsor, that we see eye to eye on the
subject."
"I guess that's right. I was raised in the plains, and I lived in
Kentucky a while. There's more doing there in a day than there is
here in a month. Say, how did you fix it with the old man?"
"With Comrade Freddie? I have a certain amount of influence with
him. He is content to order his movements in the main by my
judgment. I assured him that all would be well, and he yielded."
Psmith gazed with interest at the cat, which was lapping milk from
the saucer. "Are you training that animal for a show of some kind,
Comrade Windsor, or is it a domestic pet?"
"I've adopted her. The office-boy on our paper got her away from a
dog this morning, and gave her to me."
"Your paper?"
"_Cosy Moments_," said Billy Windsor, with a touch of shame.
"_Cosy Moments_?" said Psmith reflectively. "I regret that the
bright little sheet has not come my way up to the present. I must
seize an early opportunity of perusing it."
"Don't you do it."
"You've no paternal pride in the little journal?"
"It's bad enough to hurt," said Billy Windsor disgustedly. "If you
really want to see it, come along with me to my place, and I'll
show you a copy."
"It will be a pleasure," said Psmith. "Comrade Jackson, have you
any previous engagement for to-night?"
"I'm not doing anything," said Mike.
"Then let us stagger forth with Comrade Windsor. While he is
loading up that basket, we will be collecting our hats. . . . I am
not half sure, Comrade Jackson," he added, as they walked out,
"that Comrade Windsor may not prove to be the genial spirit for
whom I have been searching. If you could give me your undivided
company, I should ask no more. But with you constantly away,
mingling with the gay throng, it is imperative that I have some
solid man to accompany me in my ramblings hither and thither. It is
possible that Comrade Windsor may possess the qualifications
necessary for the post. But here he comes. Let us foregather with
him and observe him in private life before arriving at any
premature decision."