THE HONEYED WORD
Master Maloney's statement that "about 'steen visitors" had arrived
in addition to Messrs. Asher, Waterman, and the Rev. Philpotts
proved to have been due to a great extent to a somewhat feverish
imagination. There were only five men in the room.
As Psmith entered, every eye was turned upon him. To an outside
spectator he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressed
Daniel introduced into a den of singularly irritable lions. Five
pairs of eyes were smouldering with a long-nursed resentment. Five
brows were corrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was the
simple majesty of Psmith's demeanour that for a moment there was
dead silence. Not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped in
thought, to the editorial chair. Stillness brooded over the room as
he carefully dusted that piece of furniture, and, having done so to
his satisfaction, hitched up the knees of his trousers and sank
gracefully into a sitting position.
This accomplished, he looked up and started. He gazed round the
room.
"Ha! I am observed!" he murmured.
The words broke the spell. Instantly, the five visitors burst
simultaneously 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 "Pardon
me!" necessarily finished first with the rest nowhere.
Psmith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gaze
through 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 some
neighbouring 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 "Pardon
me!" "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 for
you?"
"Are you on the editorial staff of this paper?"
"I am acting sub-editor. The work is not light," added Psmith
gratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round, 'Can Psmith get
through 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 small
round gentleman who so far had done only chorus work.
"If it is in my power to do so, it shall be done, Comrade--I have
not the pleasure of your name."
"My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whose
name 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 his
eye. He felt that he must run no risk of not seeing clearly the
husband of one who, in his opinion, stood alone in literary circles
as a purveyor of sheer bilge.
"My wife," continued the little man, producing an envelope
and handing it to Psmith, "has received this extraordinary
communication from a man signing himself W. Windsor. We are
both 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 journal
from its foundation. Her work has given every satisfaction to Mr.
Wilberfloss. And now, without the slightest warning, comes this
peremptory dismissal from W. Windsor. Who is W. Windsor? Where is
Mr. Wilberfloss?"
The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they all
wanted to know: Who was W. Windsor? Where was Mr. Wilberfloss?
"I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts, sir," said a cadaverous-looking
man with pale blue eyes and a melancholy face. "I have
contributed 'Moments of Meditation' to this journal for a very
considerable period of time."
"I have read your page with the keenest interest," said Psmith. "I
may be wrong, but yours seems to me work which the world will not
willingly let die."
The Reverend Edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile.
"And yet," continued Psmith, "I gather that Comrade Windsor, on the
other hand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease. It is these
strange contradictions, these clashings of personal taste, which
make up what we call life. Here we have, on the one hand--"
A man with a face like a walnut, who had hitherto lurked almost
unseen 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 want
to see. I've been working for this paper without a break, except
when I had the mumps, for four years, and I've reason to know that
my page was as widely read and appreciated as any in New York. And
now up comes this Windsor fellow, if you please, and tells me in so
many 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 what
these 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 as
a visitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some
great national monument. That he should be privileged to look upon
the author of "Moments of Mirth" in the flesh, face to face, was
almost 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, "have
frequently 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 the
rest with a wave of the hand, "don't know. Nobody knows. His
locality is as hard to ascertain as that of a black cat in a
coal-cellar on a moonless night. Shortly before I joined this
journal, Mr. Wilberfloss, by his doctor's orders, started out on a
holiday, leaving no address. No letters were to be forwarded. He
was to enjoy complete rest. Where is he now? Who shall say?
Possibly legging it down some rugged slope in the Rockies, with two
bears and a wild cat in earnest pursuit. Possibly in the midst of
some Florida everglade, making a noise like a piece of meat in
order 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 fellow
Windsor's the boss here, that what he says goes?"
Psmith bowed.
"With your customary clear-headedness, Comrade Asher, you have got
home on the bull's-eye first pop. Comrade Windsor is indeed the
boss. A man of intensely masterful character, he will brook no
opposition. I am powerless to sway him. Suggestions from myself as
to the conduct of the paper would infuriate him. He believes that
radical changes are necessary in the programme of _Cosy Moments_, and
he means to put them through if it snows. Doubtless he would gladly
consider your work if it fitted in with his ideas. A snappy account
of 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 saying
to a young friend of mine of the name of Spiller, 'Comrade Spiller,
never confuse the unusual with the impossible.' It is my guiding
rule in life. It is unusual for the substitute-editor of a weekly
paper to do a Captain Kidd act and take entire command of the
journal on his own account; but is it impossible? Alas no. Comrade
Windsor has done it. That is where you, Comrade Asher, and you,
gentlemen, have landed yourselves squarely in the broth. You have
confused 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
_régime_ is but an experiment. It may be that when Comrade
Wilberfloss, having dodged the bears and eluded the wild cat,
returns to his post at the helm of this journal, he may decide not
to continue on the lines at present mapped out. He should be back
in about ten weeks."
"Ten weeks!"
"I fancy that was to be the duration of his holiday. Till then my
advice to you gentlemen is to wait. You may rely on me to keep a
watchful eye upon your interests. When your thoughts tend to take a
gloomy turn, say to yourselves, 'All is well. Psmith is keeping a
watchful 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. Comrade
Windsor is a man of the fiercest passions. He cannot brook
interference. Were you to question the wisdom of his plans, there
is no knowing what might not happen. He would be the first to
regret any violent action, when once he had cooled off, but would
that be any consolation to his victim? I think not. Of course, if
you 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. That
is the watch-word. And now," he added, rising, "I wonder if a bit
of lunch somewhere might not be a good thing? We have had an
interesting but fatiguing little chat. Our tissues require
restoring. If you gentlemen would care to join me--"
Ten minutes later the company was seated in complete harmony round
a table at the Knickerbocker. Psmith, with the dignified bonhomie
of a seigneur of the old school, was ordering the wine; while B.
Henderson Asher, brimming over with good-humour, was relating to an
attentive circle an anecdote which should have appeared in his next
instalment of "Moments of Mirth."