GOING SOME
There was once an editor of a paper in the Far West who was sitting
at his desk, musing pleasantly of life, when a bullet crashed
through the window and embedded itself in the wall at the back of
his head. A happy smile lit up the editor's face. "Ah," he said
complacently, "I knew that Personal column of ours was going to be
a success!"
What the bullet was to the Far West editor, the visit of Mr.
Francis Parker to the offices of _Cosy Moments_ was to Billy Windsor.
It occurred in the third week of the new _régime_ of the paper.
_Cosy Moments_, under its new management, had bounded ahead like a
motor-car when the throttle is opened. Incessant work had been the
order of the day. Billy Windsor's hair had become more dishevelled
than ever, and even Psmith had at moments lost a certain amount of
his dignified calm. Sandwiched in between the painful case of Kid
Brady and the matter of the tenements, which formed the star items
of the paper's contents, was a mass of bright reading dealing with
the events of the day. Billy Windsor's newspaper friends had turned
in some fine, snappy stuff in their best Yellow Journal manner,
relating to the more stirring happenings in the city. Psmith, who
had constituted himself guardian of the literary and dramatic
interests of the paper, had employed his gift of general invective
to considerable effect, as was shown by a conversation between
Master Maloney and a visitor one morning, heard through the open
door.
"I wish to see the editor of this paper," said the visitor.
"Editor not in," said Master Maloney, untruthfully.
"Ha! Then when he returns I wish you to give him a message."
"Sure."
"I am Aubrey Bodkin, of the National Theatre. Give him my
compliments, and tell him that Mr. Bodkin does not lightly forget."
An unsolicited testimonial which caused Psmith the keenest
satisfaction.
The section of the paper devoted to Kid Brady was attractive to all
those with sporting blood in them. Each week there appeared in the
same place on the same page a portrait of the Kid, looking moody
and important, in an attitude of self-defence, and under the
portrait the legend, "Jimmy Garvin must meet this boy." Jimmy was
the present holder of the light-weight title. He had won it a year
before, and since then had confined himself to smoking cigars as
long as walking-sticks and appearing nightly as the star in a
music-hall sketch entitled "A Fight for Honour." His reminiscences
were appearing weekly in a Sunday paper. It was this that gave
Psmith the idea of publishing Kid Brady's autobiography in _Cosy
Moments_, an idea which made the Kid his devoted adherent from then
on. Like most pugilists, the Kid had a passion for bursting into
print, and his life had been saddened up to the present by the
refusal of the press to publish his reminiscences. To appear in
print is the fighter's accolade. It signifies that he has arrived.
Psmith extended the hospitality of page four of _Cosy Moments_ to Kid
Brady, and the latter leaped at the chance. He was grateful to
Psmith for not editing his contributions. Other pugilists,
contributing to other papers, groaned under the supervision of a
member of the staff who cut out their best passages and altered the
rest into Addisonian English. The readers of _Cosy Moments_ got Kid
Brady raw.
"Comrade Brady," said Psmith to Billy, "has a singularly pure and
pleasing style. It is bound to appeal powerfully to the
many-headed. Listen to this bit. Our hero is fighting Battling Jack
Benson in that eminent artist's native town of Louisville, and the
citizens have given their native son the Approving Hand, while
receiving Comrade Brady with chilly silence. Here is the Kid on the
subject: 'I looked around that house, and I seen I hadn't a friend
in it. And then the gong goes, and I says to myself how I has one
friend, my poor old mother way out in Wyoming, and I goes in and
mixes it, and then I seen Benson losing his goat, so I ups with an
awful half-scissor hook to the plexus, and in the next round I seen
Benson has a chunk of yellow, and I gets in with a hay-maker and I
picks up another sleep-producer from the floor and hands it him,
and he takes the count all right.' . . Crisp, lucid, and to the
point. That is what the public wants. If this does not bring
Comrade Garvin up to the scratch, nothing will."
But the feature of the paper was the "Tenement" series. It was late
summer now, and there was nothing much going on in New York. The
public was consequently free to take notice. The sale of _Cosy
Moments_ proceeded briskly. As Psmith had predicted, the change of
policy had the effect of improving the sales to a marked extent.
Letters of complaint from old subscribers poured into the office
daily. But, as Billy Windsor complacently remarked, they had paid
their subscriptions, so that the money was safe whether they read
the paper or not. And, meanwhile, a large new public had sprung up
and was growing every week. Advertisements came trooping in. _Cosy
Moments_, in short, was passing through an era of prosperity
undreamed of in its history.
"Young blood," said Psmith nonchalantly, "young blood. That is the
secret. A paper must keep up to date, or it falls behind its
competitors in the race. Comrade Wilberfloss's methods were
possibly sound, but too limited and archaic. They lacked ginger. We
of the younger generation have our fingers more firmly on the
public pulse. We read off the public's unspoken wishes as if by
intuition. We know the game from A to Z."
At this moment Master Maloney entered, bearing in his hand a card.
"'Francis Parker'?" said Billy, taking it. "Don't know him."
"Nor I," said Psmith. "We make new friends daily."
"He's a guy with a tall-shaped hat," volunteered Master Maloney,
"an' he's wearin' a dude suit an' shiny shoes."
"Comrade Parker," said Psmith approvingly, "has evidently not been
blind to the importance of a visit to _Cosy Moments_. He has dressed
himself in his best. He has felt, rightly, that this is no occasion
for the old straw hat and the baggy flannels. I would not have it
otherwise. It is the right spirit. Shall we give him audience,
Comrade Windsor?"
"I wonder what he wants."
"That," said Psmith, "we shall ascertain more clearly after a
personal interview. Comrade Maloney, show the gentleman in. We can
give him three and a quarter minutes."
Pugsy withdrew.
Mr. Francis Parker proved to be a man who might have been any age
between twenty-five and thirty-five. He had a smooth, clean-shaven
face, and a cat-like way of moving. As Pugsy had stated in effect,
he wore a tail-coat, trousers with a crease which brought a smile
of kindly approval to Psmith's face, and patent-leather boots of
pronounced shininess. Gloves and a tall hat, which he carried,
completed an impressive picture.
He moved softly into the room.
"I wished to see the editor."
Psmith waved a hand towards Billy.
"The treat has not been denied you," he said. "Before you is
Comrade Windsor, the Wyoming cracker-jack. He is our editor. I
myself--I am Psmith--though but a subordinate, may also claim the
title in a measure. Technically, I am but a sub-editor; but such is
the mutual esteem in which Comrade Windsor and I hold each other
that we may practically be said to be inseparable. We have no
secrets from each other. You may address us both impartially. Will
you sit for a space?"
He pushed a chair towards the visitor, who seated himself with the
care inspired by a perfect trouser-crease. There was a momentary
silence while he selected a spot on the table on which to place his
hat.
"The style of the paper has changed greatly, has it not, during the
past few weeks?" he said. "I have never been, shall I say, a
constant reader of _Cosy Moments_, and I may be wrong. But is not its
interest in current affairs a recent development?"
"You are very right," responded Psmith. "Comrade Windsor, a man of
alert and restless temperament, felt that a change was essential if
_Cosy Moments_ was to lead public thought. Comrade Wilberfloss's
methods were good in their way. I have no quarrel with Comrade
Wilberfloss. But he did not lead public thought. He catered
exclusively for children with water on the brain, and men and women
with solid ivory skulls. Comrade Windsor, with a broader view,
feels that there are other and larger publics. He refuses to
content himself with ladling out a weekly dole of mental
predigested breakfast food. He provides meat. He--"
"Then--excuse me--" said Mr. Parker, turning to Billy, "You, I take
it, are responsible for this very vigorous attack on the
tenement-house owners?"
"You can take it I am," said Billy.
Psmith interposed.
"We are both responsible, Comrade Parker. If any husky guy, as I
fancy Master Maloney would phrase it, is anxious to aim a swift
kick at the man behind those articles, he must distribute it evenly
between Comrade Windsor and myself."
"I see." Mr. Parker paused. "They are--er--very outspoken
articles," he added.
"Warm stuff," agreed Psmith. "Distinctly warm stuff."
"May I speak frankly?" said Mr. Parker.
"Assuredly, Comrade Parker. There must be no secrets, no restraint
between us. We would not have you go away and say to yourself, 'Did
I make my meaning clear? Was I too elusive?' Say on."
"I am speaking in your best interests."
"Who would doubt it, Comrade Parker. Nothing has buoyed us up more
strongly during the hours of doubt through which we have passed
than the knowledge that you wish us well."
Billy Windsor suddenly became militant. There was a feline
smoothness about the visitor which had been jarring upon him ever
since he first spoke. Billy was of the plains, the home of blunt
speech, where you looked your man in the eye and said it quick. Mr.
Parker was too bland for human consumption. He offended Billy's
honest soul.
"See here," cried he, leaning forward, "what's it all about? Let's
have it. If you've anything to say about those articles, say it
right out. Never mind our best interests. We can look after them.
Let's have what's worrying you."
Psmith waved a deprecating hand.
"Do not let us be abrupt on this happy occasion. To me it is
enough simply to sit and chat with Comrade Parker, irrespective of
the trend of his conversation. Still, as time is money, and this is
our busy day, possibly it might be as well, sir, if you unburdened
yourself as soon as convenient. Have you come to point out some
flaw in those articles? Do they fall short in any way of your
standard for such work?"
Mr. Parker's smooth face did not change its expression, but he came
to the point.
"I should not go on with them if I were you," he said.
"Why?" demanded Billy.
"There are reasons why you should not," said Mr. Parker.
"And there are reasons why we should."
"Less powerful ones."
There proceeded from Billy a noise not describable in words. It was
partly a snort, partly a growl. It resembled more than anything
else the preliminary sniffing snarl a bull-dog emits before he
joins battle. Billy's cow-boy blood was up. He was rapidly
approaching the state of mind in which the men of the plains,
finding speech unequal to the expression of their thoughts, reach
for their guns.
Psmith intervened.
"We do not completely gather your meaning, Comrade Parker. I fear
we must ask you to hand it to us with still more breezy frankness.
Do you speak from purely friendly motives? Are you advising us to
discontinue the articles merely because you fear that they will
damage our literary reputation? Or are there other reasons why you
feel that they should cease? Do you speak solely as a literary
connoisseur? Is it the style or the subject-matter of which you
disapprove?"
Mr. Parker leaned forward.
"The gentleman whom I represent--"
"Then this is no matter of your own personal taste? You are an
emissary?"
"These articles are causing a certain inconvenience to the
gentleman whom I represent. Or, rather, he feels that, if
continued, they may do so."
"You mean," broke in Billy explosively, "that if we kick up enough
fuss to make somebody start a commission to inquire into this
rotten business, your friend who owns the private Hades we're
trying to get improved, will have to get busy and lose some of his
money by making the houses fit to live in? Is that it?"
"It is not so much the money, Mr. Windsor, though, of course, the
expense would be considerable. My employer is a wealthy man."
"I bet he is," said Billy disgustedly. "I've no doubt he makes a
mighty good pile out of Pleasant Street."
"It is not so much the money," repeated Mr. Parker, "as the
publicity involved. I speak quite frankly. There are reasons why my
employer would prefer not to come before the public just now as the
owner of the Pleasant Street property. I need not go into those
reasons. It is sufficient to say that they are strong ones."
"Well, he knows what to do, I guess. The moment he starts in to
make those houses decent, the articles stop. It's up to him."
Psmith nodded.
"Comrade Windsor is correct. He has hit the mark and rung the bell.
No conscientious judge would withhold from Comrade Windsor a cigar
or a cocoanut, according as his private preference might dictate.
That is the matter in a nutshell. Remove the reason for those very
scholarly articles, and they cease."
Mr. Parker shook his head.
"I fear that is not feasible. The expense of reconstructing the
houses makes that impossible."
"Then there's no use in talking," said Billy. "The articles will
go on."
Mr. Parker coughed. A tentative cough, suggesting that the
situation was now about to enter upon a more delicate phase. Billy
and Psmith waited for him to begin. From their point of view the
discussion was over. If it was to be reopened on fresh lines, it
was for their visitor to effect that reopening.
"Now, I'm going to be frank, gentlemen," said he, as who should
say, "We are all friends here. Let us be hearty." "I'm going to put
my cards on the table, and see if we can't fix something up. Now,
see here: We don't want unpleasantness. You aren't in this business
for your healths, eh? You've got your living to make, just like
everybody else, I guess. Well, see here. This is how it stands. To
a certain extant, I don't mind admitting, seeing that we're being
frank with one another, you two gentlemen have got us--that's to
say, my employer--in a cleft stick. Frankly, those articles are
beginning to attract attention, and if they go on there's going to
be a lot of inconvenience for my employer. That's clear, I reckon.
Well, now, here's a square proposition. How much do you want to
stop those articles? That's straight. I've been frank with you,
and I want you to be frank with me. What's your figure? Name it,
and, if it's not too high, I guess we needn't quarrel."
He looked expectantly at Billy. Billy's eyes were bulging. He
struggled for speech. He had got as far as "Say!" when Psmith
interrupted him. Psmith, gazing sadly at Mr. Parker through his
monocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old
Roman senator dealing with the enemies of the Republic.
"Comrade Parker," he said, "I fear that you have allowed constant
communication with the conscienceless commercialism of this worldly
city to undermine your moral sense. It is useless to dangle rich
bribes before our eyes. _Cosy Moments_ cannot be muzzled. You
doubtless mean well, according to your--if I may say so--somewhat
murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at ten cents weekly.
From the hills of Maine to the Everglades of Florida, from Sandy
Hook to San Francisco, from Portland, Oregon, to Melonsquashville,
Tennessee, one sentence is in every man's mouth. And what is that
sentence? I give you three guesses. You give it up? It is this:
'_Cosy Moments_ cannot be muzzled!'"
Mr. Parker rose.
"There's nothing more to be done then," he said.
"Nothing," agreed Psmith, "except to make a noise like a hoop and
roll away."
"And do it quick," yelled Billy, exploding like a fire-cracker.
Psmith bowed.
"Speed," he admitted, "would be no bad thing. Frankly--if I may
borrow the expression--your square proposition has wounded us. I am
a man of powerful self-restraint, one of those strong, silent men,
and I can curb my emotions. But I fear that Comrade Windsor's
generous temperament may at any moment prompt him to start throwing
ink-pots. And in Wyoming his deadly aim with the ink-pot won him
among the admiring cowboys the sobriquet of Crack-Shot Cuthbert. As
man to man, Comrade Parker, I should advise you to bound swiftly
away."
"I'm going," said Mr. Parker, picking up his hat. "And I'll give
you a piece of advice, too. Those articles are going to be stopped,
and if you've any sense between you, you'll stop them yourselves
before you get hurt. That's all I've got to say, and that goes."
He went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that added
emphasis to his words.
"To men of nicely poised nervous organisation such as ourselves,
Comrade Windsor," said Psmith, smoothing his waistcoat thoughtfully,
"these scenes are acutely painful. We wince before them. Our
ganglions quiver like cinematographs. Gradually recovering command
of ourselves, we review the situation. Did our visitor's final
remarks convey anything definite to you? Were they the mere casual
badinage of a parting guest, or was there something solid behind
them?"
Billy Windsor was looking serious.
"I guess he meant it all right. He's evidently working for somebody
pretty big, and that sort of man would have a pull with all kinds
of Thugs. We shall have to watch out. Now that they find we can't
be bought, they'll try the other way. They mean business sure
enough. But, by George, let 'em! We're up against a big thing, and
I'm going to see it through if they put every gang in New York on
to us."
"Precisely, Comrade Windsor. _Cosy Moments_, as I have had occasion
to observe before, cannot be muzzled."
"That's right," said Billy Windsor. "And," he added, with the
contented look the Far West editor must have worn as the bullet
came through the window, "we must have got them scared, or they
wouldn't have shown their hand that way. I guess we're making a
hit. _Cosy Moments_ is going some now."