Psmith, Journalist

  Produced by Jim Tinsley

  Psmith, Journalist

  by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse

  PREFACE

  THE conditions of life in New York are so different from those ofLondon that a story of this kind calls for a little explanation.There are several million inhabitants of New York. Not all of themeke out a precarious livelihood by murdering one another, but thereis a definite section of the population which murders--notcasually, on the spur of the moment, but on definitely commerciallines at so many dollars per murder. The "gangs" of New York existin fact. I have not invented them. Most of the incidents in thisstory are based on actual happenings. The Rosenthal case, wherefour men, headed by a genial individual calling himself "Gyp theBlood" shot a fellow-citizen in cold blood in a spot as public andfashionable as Piccadilly Circus and escaped in a motor-car, madesuch a stir a few years ago that the noise of it was heard all overthe world and not, as is generally the case with the doings of thegangs, in New York only. Rosenthal cases on a smaller and lesssensational scale are frequent occurrences on Manhattan Island. Itwas the prominence of the victim rather than the unusual nature ofthe occurrence that excited the New York press. Most gang victimsget a quarter of a column in small type.

  P. G. WODEHOUSENew York, 1915

  CHAPTER I

  "COSY MOMENTS"

  The man in the street would not have known it, but a great crisiswas imminent in New York journalism.

  Everything seemed much as usual in the city. The cars ran blithelyon Broadway. Newsboys shouted "Wux-try!" into the ears of nervouspedestrians with their usual Caruso-like vim. Society passed up anddown Fifth Avenue in its automobiles, and was there a furrow ofanxiety upon Society's brow? None. At a thousand street corners athousand policemen preserved their air of massive superiority tothe things of this world. Not one of them showed the least sign ofperturbation. Nevertheless, the crisis was at hand. Mr. J. FillkenWilberfloss, editor-in-chief of _Cosy Moments_, was about to leavehis post and start on a ten weeks' holiday.

  In New York one may find every class of paper which the imaginationcan conceive. Every grade of society is catered for. If an Esquimaucame to New York, the first thing he would find on the bookstallsin all probability would be the _Blubber Magazine_, or some similarproduction written by Esquimaux for Esquimaux. Everybody reads inNew York, and reads all the time. The New Yorker peruses hisfavourite paper while he is being jammed into a crowded compartmenton the subway or leaping like an antelope into a moving Street car.

  There was thus a public for _Cosy Moments_. _Cosy Moments_, as itsname (an inspiration of Mr. Wilberfloss's own) is designed toimply, is a journal for the home. It is the sort of paper which thefather of the family is expected to take home with him from hisoffice and read aloud to the chicks before bed-time. It was foundedby its proprietor, Mr. Benjamin White, as an antidote to yellowjournalism. One is forced to admit that up to the present yellowjournalism seems to be competing against it with a certain measureof success. Headlines are still of as generous a size asheretofore, and there is no tendency on the part of editors toscamp the details of the last murder-case.

  Nevertheless, _Cosy Moments_ thrives. It has its public.

  Its contents are mildly interesting, if you like that sort ofthing. There is a "Moments in the Nursery" page, conducted byLuella Granville Waterman, to which parents are invited tocontribute the bright speeches of their offspring, and whichbristles with little stories about the nursery canary, by Jane(aged six), and other works of rising young authors. There is a"Moments of Meditation" page, conducted by the Reverend Edwin T.Philpotts; a "Moments Among the Masters" page, consisting ofassorted chunks looted from the literature of the past, whenforeheads were bulgy and thoughts profound, by Mr. Wilberflosshimself; one or two other pages; a short story; answers tocorrespondents on domestic matters; and a "Moments of Mirth" page,conducted by an alleged humorist of the name of B. Henderson Asher,which is about the most painful production ever served up to aconfiding public.

  The guiding spirit of _Cosy Moments_ was Mr. Wilberfloss.Circumstances had left the development of the paper mainly to him.For the past twelve months the proprietor had been away in Europe,taking the waters at Carlsbad, and the sole control of _Cosy Moments_had passed into the hands of Mr. Wilberfloss. Nor had he provedunworthy of the trust or unequal to the duties. In that year _CosyMoments_ had reached the highest possible level of domesticity.Anything not calculated to appeal to the home had been rigidlyexcluded. And as a result the circulation had increased steadily.Two extra pages had been added, "Moments Among the Shoppers" and"Moments with Society." And the advertisements had grown in volume.But the work had told upon the Editor. Work of that sort carriesits penalties with it. Success means absorption, and absorptionspells softening of the brain.

  Whether it was the strain of digging into the literature of thepast every week, or the effort of reading B. Henderson Asher's"Moments of Mirth" is uncertain. At any rate, his duties, combinedwith the heat of a New York summer, had sapped Mr. Wilberfloss'shealth to such an extent that the doctor had ordered him ten weeks'complete rest in the mountains. This Mr. Wilberfloss could,perhaps, have endured, if this had been all. There are worse placesthan the mountains of America in which to spend ten weeks of thetail-end of summer, when the sun has ceased to grill and themosquitoes have relaxed their exertions. But it was not all. Thedoctor, a far-seeing man who went down to first causes, hadabsolutely declined to consent to Mr. Wilberfloss's suggestion thathe should keep in touch with the paper during his vacation. He wasadamant. He had seen copies of _Cosy Moments_ once or twice, and herefused to permit a man in the editor's state of health to come incontact with Luella Granville Waterman's "Moments in the Nursery"and B. Henderson Asher's "Moments of Mirth." The medicine-man puthis foot down firmly.

  "You must not see so much as the cover of the paper for ten weeks,"he said. "And I'm not so sure that it shouldn't be longer. You mustforget that such a paper exists. You must dismiss the whole thingfrom your mind, live in the open, and develop a little flesh andmuscle."

  To Mr. Wilberfloss the sentence was almost equivalent to penalservitude. It was with tears in his voice that he was giving hisfinal instructions to his sub-editor, in whose charge the paperwould be left during his absence. He had taken a long time doingthis. For two days he had been fussing in and out of the office, tothe discontent of its inmates, more especially Billy Windsor, thesub-editor, who was now listening moodily to the last harangue ofthe series, with the air of one whose heart is not in the subject.Billy Windsor was a tall, wiry, loose-jointed young man, withunkempt hair and the general demeanour of a caged eagle. Lookingat him, one could picture him astride of a bronco, rounding upcattle, or cooking his dinner at a camp-fire. Somehow he did notseem to fit into the _Cosy Moments_ atmosphere.

  "Well, I think that that is all, Mr. Windsor," chirruped theeditor. He was a little man with a long neck and large _pince-nez_,and he always chirruped. "You understand the general lines on whichI think the paper should be conducted?" The sub-editor nodded. Mr.Wilberfloss made him tired. Sometimes he made him more tired thanat other times. At the present moment he filled him with an achingweariness. The editor meant well, and was full of zeal, but he hada habit of covering and recovering the ground. He possessed the artof saying the same obvious thing in a number of different ways to adegree which is found usually only in politicians. If Mr. Wilberflosshad been a politician, he would have been one of those dealers inglittering generalities who used to be fashionable in Americanpolitics.

  "There is just one thing," he continued "Mrs. Julia Burdett Parslowis a little inclined--I may have mentioned this before--"

  "You did," said the sub-editor.

  Mr. Wilberfloss chirruped on, unchecked.

  "A little
inclined to be late with her 'Moments with BuddingGirlhood'. If this should happen while I am away, just write her aletter, quite a pleasant letter, you understand, pointing out thenecessity of being in good time. The machinery of a weekly paper, ofcourse, cannot run smoothly unless contributors are in good timewith their copy. She is a very sensible woman, and she willunderstand, I am sure, if you point it out to her."

  The sub-editor nodded.

  "And there is just one other thing. I wish you would correct aslight tendency I have noticed lately in Mr. Asher to be just atrifle--well, not precisely _risky_, but perhaps a shade _broad_in his humour."

  "His what?" said Billy Windsor.

  "Mr. Asher is a very sensible man, and he will be the first toacknowledge that his sense of humour has led him just a littlebeyond the bounds. You understand? Well, that is all, I think. NowI must really be going, or I shall miss my train. Good-bye, Mr.Windsor."

  "Good-bye," said the sub-editor thankfully.

  At the door Mr. Wilberfloss paused with the air of an exile biddingfarewell to his native land, sighed, and trotted out.

  Billy Windsor put his feet upon the table, and with a deep scowlresumed his task of reading the proofs of Luella GranvilleWaterman's "Moments in the Nursery."