GUERILLA WARFARE
Thus ended the opening engagement of the campaign, seemingly in a
victory for the _Cosy Moments_ army. Billy Windsor, however, shook
his head.
"We've got mighty little out of it," he said.
"The victory," said Psmith, "was not bloodless. Comrade Brady's ear,
my hat--these are not slight casualties. On the other hand, surely
we are one up? Surely we have gained ground? The elimination of
Comrade Repetto from the scheme of things in itself is something. I
know few men I would not rather meet in a lonely road than Comrade
Repetto. He is one of Nature's sand-baggers. Probably the thing
crept upon him slowly. He started, possibly, in a merely tentative
way by slugging one of the family circle. His nurse, let us say, or
his young brother. But, once started, he is unable to resist the
craving. The thing grips him like dram-drinking. He sandbags now not
because he really wants to, but because he cannot help himself. To
me there is something consoling in the thought that Comrade Repetto
will no longer be among those present."
"What makes you think that?"
"I should imagine that a benevolent Law will put him away in his
little cell for at least a brief spell."
"Not on your life," said Billy. "He'll prove an alibi."
Psmith's eyeglass dropped out of his eye. He replaced it, and
gazed, astonished, at Billy.
"An alibi? When three keen-eyed men actually caught him at it?"
"He can find thirty toughs to swear he was five miles away."
"And get the court to believe it?" said Psmith.
"Sure," said Billy disgustedly. "You don't catch them hurting a
gangsman unless they're pushed against the wall. The politicians
don't want the gangs in gaol, especially as the Aldermanic
elections will be on in a few weeks. Did you ever hear of Monk
Eastman?"
"I fancy not, Comrade Windsor. If I did, the name has escaped me.
Who was this cleric?"
"He was the first boss of the East Side gang, before Kid Twist took
it on."
"Yes?"
"He was arrested dozens of times, but he always got off. Do you
know what he said once, when they pulled him for thugging a fellow
out in New Jersey?"
"I fear not, Comrade Windsor. Tell me all."
"He said, 'You're arresting me, huh? Say, you want to look where
you're goin'; I cut some ice in this town. I made half the big
politicians in New York!' That was what he said."
"His small-talk," said Psmith, "seems to have been bright and
well-expressed. What happened then? Was he restored to his friends
and his relations?"
"Sure, he was. What do you think? Well, Jack Repetto isn't Monk
Eastman, but he's in with Spider Reilly, and the Spider's in with
the men behind. Jack'll get off."
"It looks to me, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith thoughtfully, "as if
my stay in this great city were going to cost me a small fortune in
hats."
Billy's prophecy proved absolutely correct. The police were as good
as their word. In due season they rounded up the impulsive Mr.
Repetto, and he was haled before a magistrate. And then, what a
beautiful exhibition of brotherly love and auld-lang-syne
camaraderie was witnessed! One by one, smirking sheepishly, but
giving out their evidence with unshaken earnestness, eleven greasy,
wandering-eyed youths mounted the witness-stand and affirmed on
oath that at the time mentioned dear old Jack had been making
merry in their company in a genial and law-abiding fashion, many,
many blocks below the scene of the regrettable assault. The
magistrate discharged the prisoner, and the prisoner, meeting Billy
and Psmith in the street outside, leered triumphantly at them.
Billy stepped up to him. "You may have wriggled out of this," he
said furiously, "but if you don't get a move on and quit looking at
me like that, I'll knock you over the Singer Building. Hump
yourself."
Mr. Repetto humped himself.
So was victory turned into defeat, and Billy's jaw became squarer
and his eye more full of the light of battle than ever. And there
was need of a square jaw and a battle-lit eye, for now began a
period of guerilla warfare such as no New York paper had ever had
to fight against.
It was Wheeler, the gaunt manager of the business side of the
journal, who first brought it to the notice of the editorial staff.
Wheeler was a man for whom in business hours nothing existed but
his job; and his job was to look after the distribution of the
paper. As to the contents of the paper he was absolutely ignorant.
He had been with _Cosy Moments_ from its start, but he had never read
a line of it. He handled it as if it were so much soap. The
scholarly writings of Mr. Wilberfloss, the mirth-provoking sallies
of Mr. B. Henderson Asher, the tender outpourings of Louella
Granville Waterman--all these were things outside his ken. He was a
distributor, and he distributed.
A few days after the restoration of Mr. Repetto to East Side
Society, Mr. Wheeler came into the editorial room with information
and desire for information.
He endeavoured to satisfy the latter first.
"What's doing, anyway?" he asked. He then proceeded to his
information. "Some one's got it in against the paper, sure," he
said. "I don't know what it's all about. I ha'n't never read the
thing. Don't see what any one could have against a paper with a
name like _Cosy Moments_, anyway. The way things have been going
last few days, seems it might be the organ of a blamed mining-camp
what the boys have took a dislike to."
"What's been happening?" asked Billy with gleaming eyes.
"Why, nothing in the world to fuss about, only our carriers can't
go out without being beaten up by gangs of toughs. Pat Harrigan's
in the hospital now. Just been looking in on him. Pat's a feller
who likes to fight. Rather fight he would than see a ball-game. But
this was too much for him. Know what happened? Why, see here, just
like this it was. Pat goes out with his cart. Passing through a
low-down street on his way up-town he's held up by a bunch of
toughs. He shows fight. Half a dozen of them attend to him, while
the rest gets clean away with every copy of the paper there was in
the cart. When the cop comes along, there's Pat in pieces on the
ground and nobody in sight but a Dago chewing gum. Cop asks the
Dago what's been doing, and the Dago says he's only just come round
the corner and ha'n't seen nothing of anybody. What I want to know
is, what's it all about? Who's got it in for us and why?"
Mr. Wheeler leaned back in his chair, while Billy, his hair rumpled
more than ever and his eyes glowing, explained the situation. Mr.
Wheeler listened absolutely unmoved, and, when the narrative had
come to an end, gave it as his opinion that the editorial staff had
sand. That was his sole comment. "It's up to you," he said,
rising. "You know your business. Say, though, some one had better
get busy right quick and do something to stop these guys
rough-housing like this. If we get a few more carriers beat up the
way Pat was, there'll be a strike. It's not as if they were all
Irishmen. The most of them are Dagoes and such, and they don't
want any more fight than they can get by beating their wives and
kicking kids off the sidewalk. I'll do my best to get this paper
distributed right and it's a shame if it ain't, because it's going
big just now--but it's up to you. Good day, gents."
He went out. Psmith looked at Billy.
"As Comrade Wheeler remarks," he said, "it is up to us. What do you
propose to do about it? This is a move of the enemy which I have
not anticipated. I had fancied that their operations would be
confined exclusively to our two selves. If they are going to strew
the street with our carriers, we are somewhat in the soup."
Billy said nothing. He was chewing the stem of an unlighted pipe.
Psmith went on.
"It means, of course, that we must buck up to a certain extent. If
the campaign is to be a long one, they have us where the hair is
crisp. We cannot stand the strain. _Cosy Moments_ cannot be muzzled,
but it can undoubtedly be choked. What we want to do is to find
out the name of the man behind the tenements as soon as ever we can
and publish it; and, then, if we perish, fall yelling the name."
Billy admitted the soundness of this scheme, but wished to know how
it was to be done.
"Comrade Windsor," said Psmith. "I have been thinking this thing
over, and it seems to me that we are on the wrong track, or rather
we aren't on any track at all; we are simply marking time. What we
want to do is to go out and hustle round till we stir up something.
Our line up to the present has been to sit at home and scream
vigorously in the hope of some stout fellow hearing and rushing to
help. In other words, we've been saying in the paper what an
out-size in scugs the merchant must be who owns those tenements, in
the hope that somebody else will agree with us and be sufficiently
interested to get to work and find out who the blighter is. That's
all wrong. What we must do now, Comrade Windsor, is put on our
hats, such hats as Comrade Repetto has left us, and sally forth as
sleuth-hounds on our own account."
"Yes, but how?" demanded Billy. "That's all right in theory, but
how's it going to work in practice? The only thing that can corner
the man is a commission."
"Far from it, Comrade Windsor. The job may be worked more simply. I
don't know how often the rents are collected in these places, but I
should say at a venture once a week. My idea is to hang negligently
round till the rent-collector arrives, and when he has loomed up on
the horizon, buttonhole him and ask him quite politely, as man to
man, whether he is collecting those rents for himself or for
somebody else, and if somebody else, who that somebody else is.
Simple, I fancy? Yet brainy. Do you take me, Comrade Windsor?"
Billy sat up, excited. "I believe you've hit it."
Psmith shot his cuffs modestly.