Psmith, Journalist quotes

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

Everything seemed much as usual in the city. The cars ran blithely on Broadway. Newsboys shouted “Wux-try!” into the ears of nervous pedestrians with their usual Caruso-like vim.

Billy had been in a bad way when he had happened upon the subeditorship of Cosy Moments.

He despised the work with all his heart, and the salary was infinitesimal.

But it was regular, and for a while Billy felt that a regular salary was the greatest thing on earth.

The other extended his hand with some suspicion.

“Your ‘Moments of Mirth,’ ” said Psmith, shaking it, “have frequently reconciled me to the toothache.”

“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.”

“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.

“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 firecracker.

“Something about it that offends your aesthetic taste?” queried Psmith sympathetically.

“Something about it makes my aesthetic taste kick like a mule,” said Billy.

“Ah, we highly strung literary men do have these curious prejudices. We cannot help it. We are the slaves of our temperaments. Let us walk, then. After all, the night is fine, and we are young and strong.”

“Wait,” said Billy. “He’ll win yet.”

“Sure. He comes from Wyoming,” said Billy with simple confidence.

Rounds two and three were a repetition of round one. The Cyclone raged almost unchecked about the ring. In one lightning rally in the third he brought his right across squarely on to the Kid’s jaw.

The rescue party was coming up at the gallop.

The New York policeman may lack the quiet dignity of his London rival, but he is a hustler.

“Nothing now,” said the disgusted voice of Billy Windsor from the shadows. “They’ve beaten it.”

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.”

Mr. Coston called Mr. Dawson a pie-faced rubbernecked four-flusher.

Mr. Dawson called Mr. Coston a coon.

And that was where the trouble really started.

There was a momentary pause, broken by an oath from Mr. Gooch, who was still undergoing treatment in the background.

“Aha!” said Psmith genially. “Historic picture. ‘Doctor Cook discovers the North Pole.’ ”

The redheaded young man blinked. The strong light of the open air was trying to his eyes.

“De guy’s gotten a big stick.”

“I and Roosevelt,” he murmured.

A somewhat baffled silence on the part of the attacking force was followed by further conversation.

A voice from the room called up to Psmith.

“You have our ear,” said Psmith.

“I said you had our ear.”

“Are youse guys goin’ to quit off out of dat roof?”

“Your grammar is perfectly beastly,” said Psmith severely.

“No, my lad,” said Psmith, “since you ask, we are not. And why? Because the air up here is refreshing, the view pleasant, and we are expecting at any moment an important communication from Comrade Gooch.”

“Five years.

People don’t remember a thing here that happened five years back unless they’re reminded of it.

”

Did you notice the hired ruffian in the flannel suit who just passed? He wore a baffled look, I fancy. And hark! Wasn’t that a muttered ‘Failed!’ I heard? Or was it the breeze moaning in the treetops?

Tonight is a cold, disappointing night for Hired Ruffians, Comrade Windsor.

”

This sounds like the beginning of a “Plod and Punctuality,” or “How Great Fortunes have been Made” story; but, as a matter of fact, Master Maloney was no early bird.

Larks who rose in his neighbourhood, rose alone.

He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at the office at nine o’clock. It was a point of honour with him, a sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before nine-thirty.

“I understand.

I am a man of few words myself. All great men are like that.

Von Moltke, Comrade Otto, and myself. But what are words? Action is the thing. That is the cry. Action.

“Sherlock Holmes was right,” said Psmith regretfully. “You may remember that he advised Doctor Watson never to take the first cab, or the second. He should have gone further, and urged him not to take cabs at all.

Walking is far healthier.

”

Among his audience (still excepting Mr. Jarvis, who was tickling one of the cats and whistling a plaintive melody) there was a tendency toward awkward silence.

To start ballyragging a seeming nonentity and then to discover he is the proprietor of the paper to which you wish to contribute is like kicking an apparently empty hat and finding your rich uncle inside it.

Mr. Wilberfloss in particular was disturbed. Editorships of the kind which he aspired to are not easy to get. If he were to be removed from Cosy Moments he would find it hard to place himself anywhere else.

Mr. Wilberfloss in particular was disturbed. Editorships of the kind which he aspired to are not easy to get. If he were to be removed from Cosy Moments he would find it hard to place himself anywhere else.

Editors, like manuscripts, are rejected from want of space.

“Very early in my connection with this journal,” said Psmith, “I saw that I was on to a good thing.