PLANNING IMPROVEMENTS
"By the way," said Psmith, "what is your exact position on this
paper? Practically, we know well, you are its back-bone, its
life-blood; but what is your technical position? When your
proprietor is congratulating himself on having secured the ideal
man for your job, what precise job does he congratulate himself on
having secured the ideal man for?"
"I'm sub-editor."
"Merely sub? You deserve a more responsible post than that, Comrade
Windsor. Where is your proprietor? I must buttonhole him and point
out to him what a wealth of talent he is allowing to waste itself.
You must have scope."
"He's in Europe. At Carlsbad, or somewhere. He never comes near
the paper. He just sits tight and draws the profits. He lets the
editor look after things. Just at present I'm acting as editor."
"Ah! then at last you have your big chance. You are free,
untrammelled."
"You bet I'm not," said Billy Windsor. "Guess again. There's no
room for developing free untrammelled ideas on this paper. When
you've looked at it, you'll see that each page is run by some one.
I'm simply the fellow who minds the shop."
Psmith clicked his tongue sympathetically. "It is like setting a
gifted French chef to wash up dishes," he said. "A man of your
undoubted powers, Comrade Windsor, should have more scope. That is
the cry, 'more scope!' I must look into this matter. When I gaze at
your broad, bulging forehead, when I see the clear light of
intelligence in your eyes, and hear the grey matter splashing
restlessly about in your cerebellum, I say to myself without
hesitation, 'Comrade Windsor must have more scope.'" He looked at
Mike, who was turning over the leaves of his copy of _Cosy Moments_
in a sort of dull despair. "Well, Comrade Jackson, and what is your
verdict?"
Mike looked at Billy Windsor. He wished to be polite, yet he could
find nothing polite to say. Billy interpreted the look.
"Go on," he said. "Say it. It can't be worse than what I think."
"I expect some people would like it awfully," said Mike.
"They must, or they wouldn't buy it. I've never met any of them
yet, though."
Psmith was deep in Luella Granville Waterman's "Moments in the
Nursery." He turned to Billy Windsor.
"Luella Granville Waterman," he said, "is not by any chance your
_nom-de-plume_, Comrade Windsor?"
"Not on your life. Don't think it."
"I am glad," said Psmith courteously. "For, speaking as man to man,
I must confess that for sheer, concentrated bilge she gets away
with the biscuit with almost insolent ease. Luella Granville
Waterman must go."
"How do you mean?"
"She must go," repeated Psmith firmly. "Your first act, now that
you have swiped the editorial chair, must be to sack her."
"But, say, I can't. The editor thinks a heap of her stuff."
"We cannot help his troubles. We must act for the good of the
paper. Moreover, you said, I think, that he was away?"
"So he is. But he'll come back."
"Sufficient unto the day, Comrade Windsor. I have a suspicion that
he will be the first to approve your action. His holiday will have
cleared his brain. Make a note of improvement number one--the
sacking of Luella Granville Waterman."
"I guess it'll be followed pretty quick by improvement number
two--the sacking of William Windsor. I can't go monkeying about
with the paper that way."
Psmith reflected for a moment.
"Has this job of yours any special attractions for you, Comrade
Windsor?"
"I guess not."
"As I suspected. You yearn for scope. What exactly are your
ambitions?"
"I want to get a job on one of the big dailies. I don't see how
I'm going to fix it, though, at the present rate."
Psmith rose, and tapped him earnestly on the chest.
"Comrade Windsor, you have touched the spot. You are wasting the
golden hours of your youth. You must move. You must hustle. You
must make Windsor of _Cosy Moments_ a name to conjure with. You must
boost this sheet up till New York rings with your exploits. On the
present lines that is impossible. You must strike out a line for
yourself. You must show the world that even _Cosy Moments_ cannot
keep a good man down."
He resumed his seat.
"How do you mean?" said Billy Windsor.
Psmith turned to Mike.
"Comrade Jackson, if you were editing this paper, is there a single
feature you would willingly retain?"
"I don't think there is," said Mike. "It's all pretty bad rot."
"My opinion in a nutshell," said Psmith, approvingly. "Comrade
Jackson," he explained, turning to Billy, "has a secure reputation
on the other side for the keenness and lucidity of his views upon
literature. You may safely build upon him. In England when Comrade
Jackson says 'Turn' we all turn. Now, my views on the matter are as
follows. _Cosy Moments_, in my opinion (worthless, were it not backed
by such a virtuoso as Comrade Jackson), needs more snap, more go.
All these putrid pages must disappear. Letters must be despatched
to-morrow morning, informing Luella Granville Waterman and the
others (and in particular B. Henderson Asher, who from a cursory
glance strikes me as an ideal candidate for a lethal chamber) that,
unless they cease their contributions instantly, you will be
compelled to place yourself under police protection. After that we
can begin to move."
Billy Windsor sat and rocked himself in his chair without replying.
He was trying to assimilate this idea. So far the grandeur of it
had dazed him. It was too spacious, too revolutionary. Could it be
done? It would undoubtedly mean the sack when Mr. J. Fillken
Wilberfloss returned and found the apple of his eye torn asunder
and, so to speak, deprived of its choicest pips. On the other hand
. . . His brow suddenly cleared. After all, what was the sack? One
crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name, and
he would have no name as long as he clung to his present position.
The editor would be away ten weeks. He would have ten weeks in
which to try himself out. Hope leaped within him. In ten weeks he
could change _Cosy Moments_ into a real live paper. He wondered that
the idea had not occurred to him before. The trifling fact that the
despised journal was the property of Mr. Benjamin White, and that
he had no right whatever to tinker with it without that gentleman's
approval, may have occurred to him, but, if it did, it occurred so
momentarily that he did not notice it. In these crises one cannot
think of everything.
"I'm on," he said, briefly.
Psmith smiled approvingly.
"That," he said, "is the right spirit. You will, I fancy, have
little cause to regret your decision. Fortunately, if I may say so,
I happen to have a certain amount of leisure just now. It is at
your disposal. I have had little experience of journalistic work,
but I foresee that I shall be a quick learner. I will become your
sub-editor, without salary."
"Bully for you," said Billy Windsor.
"Comrade Jackson," continued Psmith, "is unhappily more fettered.
The exigencies of his cricket tour will compel him constantly to be
gadding about, now to Philadelphia, now to Saskatchewan, anon to
Onehorseville, Ga. His services, therefore, cannot be relied upon
continuously. From him, accordingly, we shall expect little but
moral support. An occasional congratulatory telegram. Now and then
a bright smile of approval. The bulk of the work will devolve upon
our two selves."
"Let it devolve," said Billy Windsor, enthusiastically.
"Assuredly," said Psmith. "And now to decide upon our main scheme.
You, of course, are the editor, and my suggestions are merely
suggestions, subject to your approval. But, briefly, my idea is
that _Cosy Moments_ should become red-hot stuff. I could wish its
tone to be such that the public will wonder why we do not print it
on asbestos. We must chronicle all the live events of the day,
murders, fires, and the like in a manner which will make our
readers' spines thrill. Above all, we must be the guardians of the
People's rights. We must be a search-light, showing up the dark
spot in the souls of those who would endeavour in any way to do the
PEOPLE in the eye. We must detect the wrong-doer, and deliver him
such a series of resentful buffs that he will abandon his little
games and become a model citizen. The details of the campaign we
must think out after, but I fancy that, if we follow those main
lines, we shall produce a bright, readable little sheet which will
in a measure make this city sit up and take notice. Are you with
me, Comrade Windsor?"
"Surest thing you know," said Billy with fervour.