The Prince and Betty

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE RETIREMENT OF SMITH

  The first member of the staff of _Peaceful Moments_ to arrive atthe office on the following morning was Master Maloney. This soundslike the beginning of a "Plod and Punctuality," or "How Great Fortuneshave been Made" story, but, as a matter of fact, Master Maloney, likeMr. Bat Jarvis, was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighborhood,rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at theoffice at nine o'clock. It was a point of honor with him, a sort ofdaily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance beforenine-thirty. On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute,or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it.

  He had only whistled a few bars of "My Little Irish Rose," and hadbarely got into the first page of his story of life on the prairie,when Kid Brady appeared. The Kid had come to pay a farewell visit. Hehad not yet begun training, and he was making the best of the shorttime before such comforts should be forbidden by smoking a big blackcigar. Master Maloney eyed him admiringly. The Kid, unknown to thatgentleman himself, was Pugsy's ideal. He came from the Plains, and had,indeed, once actually been a cowboy; he was a coming champion; and hecould smoke big black cigars. There was no trace of his officialwell-what-is-it-now? air about Pugsy as he laid down his book andprepared to converse.

  "Say, Mr. Smith around anywhere, Pugsy?" asked the Kid.

  "Naw, Mr. Brady. He ain't came yet," replied Master Maloneyrespectfully.

  "Late, ain't he?"

  "Sure! He generally blows in before I do."

  "Wonder what's keepin' him?"

  As he spoke, John appeared. "Hello, Kid," he said. "Come to saygood-by?"

  "Yep," said the Kid. "Seen Mr. Smith around anywhere, Mr. Maude?"

  "Hasn't he come yet? I guess he'll be here soon. Hello, who's this?"

  A small boy was standing at the door, holding a note.

  "Mr. Maude?" he said. "Cop at Jefferson Market give me dis fer you."

  "What!" He took the letter, and gave the boy a dime. "Why, it's fromSmith. Great Scott!"

  It was apparent that the Kid was politely endeavoring to veil hiscuriosity. Master Maloney had no such delicacy.

  "What's in de letter, boss?" he enquired.

  "The letter," said John slowly, "is from Mr. Smith. And it says that hewas sentenced this morning to thirty days on the Island for resistingthe police."

  "He's de guy!" admitted Master Maloney approvingly.

  "What's that?" said the Kid. "Mr. Smith been slugging cops! What's hebeen doin' that for?"

  "I must go and find out at once. It beats me."

  It did not take John long to reach Jefferson Market, and by thejudicious expenditure of a few dollars he was enabled to obtain aninterview with Smith in a back room.

  The editor of _Peaceful Moments_ was seated on a bench, lookingremarkably disheveled. There was a bruise on his forehead, just wherethe hair began. He was, however, cheerful.

  "Ah, John," he said. "You got my note all right, then?" John looked athim, concerned.

  "What on earth does it all mean?"

  Smith heaved a regretful sigh.

  "I fear," he said, "I have made precisely the blamed fool of myselfthat Comrade Parker hoped I would."

  "Parker!"

  Smith nodded.

  "I may be misjudging him, but I seem to see the hand of Comrade Parkerin this. We had a raid at my house last night, John. We were pulled."

  "What on earth--?"

  "Somebody--if it was not Comrade Parker it was some other citizendripping with public spirit--tipped the police off that certain sportswere running a pool-room in the house where I live."

  On his departure from the _News_, Smith, from motives of economy,had moved from his hotel in Washington Square and taken a furnishedroom on Fourteenth Street.

  "There actually was a pool-room there," he went on, "so possibly I amwronging Comrade Parker in thinking that this was a scheme of his forgetting me out of the way. At any rate, somebody gave the tip, and atabout three o'clock this morning I was aroused from a dreamless slumberby quite a considerable hammering at my door. There, standing on themat, were two policemen. Very cordially the honest fellows invited meto go with them. A conveyance, it seemed, waited in the street without.I disclaimed all connection with the bad gambling persons below, butthey replied that they were cleaning up the house, and, if I wished tomake any remarks, I had better make them to the magistrate. This seemedreasonable. I said I would put on some clothes and come along. Theydemurred. They said they couldn't wait about while I put on clothes. Ipointed out that sky-blue pajamas with old-rose frogs were not thecostume in which the editor of a great New York weekly paper should beseen abroad in one of the world's greatest cities, but they assuredme--more by their manner than their words--that my misgivings weregroundless, so I yielded. These men, I told myself, have lived longerin New York than I. They know what is done, and what is not done. Iwill bow to their views. So I was starting to go with them like a lamb,when one of them gave me a shove in the ribs with his night stick. Andit was here that I fancy I may have committed a slight error ofpolicy."

  He smiled dreamily for a moment, then went on.

  "I admit that the old Berserk blood of the Smiths boiled at thatjuncture. I picked up a sleep-producer from the floor, as Comrade Bradywould say, and handed it to the big-stick merchant. He went down like asack of coal over the bookcase, and at that moment I rather fancy theother gentleman must have got busy with his club. At any rate, somebodysuddenly loosed off some fifty thousand dollars' worth of fireworks,and the next thing I knew was that the curtain had risen for the nextact on me, discovered sitting in a prison cell, with an out-size inlumps on my forehead."

  He sighed again.

  "What _Peaceful Moments_ really needs," he said, "is a_sitz-redacteur_. A _sitz-redacteur_, John, is a gentlemanemployed by German newspapers with a taste for _lese-majeste_ togo to prison whenever required in place of the real editor. The realeditor hints in his bright and snappy editorial, for instance, that theKaiser's mustache gives him bad dreams. The police force swoops downin a body on the office of the journal, and are met by the_sitz-redacteur_, who goes with them cheerfully, allowing theeditor to remain and sketch out plans for his next week's articleon the Crown Prince. We need a _sitz-redacteur_ on _PeacefulMoments_ almost as much as a fighting editor. Not now, of course.This has finished the thing. You'll have to close down the paper now."

  "Close it down!" cried John. "You bet I won't."

  "My dear old son," said Smith seriously, "what earthly reason have youfor going on with it? You only came in to help me, and I am no more. Iam gone like some beautiful flower that withers in the night. Where'sthe sense of getting yourself beaten up then? Quit!"

  John shook his head.

  "I wouldn't quit now if you paid me."

  "But--"

  A policeman appeared at the door.

  "Say, pal," he remarked to John, "you'll have to be fading away soon, Iguess. Give you three minutes more. Say it quick."

  He retired. Smith looked at John.

  "You won't quit?" he said.

  "No."

  Smith smiled.

  "You're an all-wool sport, John," he said. "I don't suppose you knowhow to spell quit. Well, then, if you are determined to stand by theship like Comrade Casabianca, I'll tell you an idea that came to me inthe watches of the night. If ever you want to get ideas, John, youspend a night in one of these cells. They flock to you. I suppose I didmore profound thinking last night than I've ever done in my life. Well,here's the idea. Act on it or not, as you please. I was thinking overthe whole business from soup to nuts, and it struck me that thequeerest part of it all is that whoever owns these Broster Streettenements should care a Canadian dime whether we find out who he is ornot."

  "Well, there's the publicity," began John.

  "Tush!" said Smith. "And possibly bah! Do you suppose that the sort ofman who runs Broster Street is likely to care a darn about publicity?What
does it matter to him if the papers soak it to him for about twodays? He knows they'll drop him and go on to something else on thethird, and he knows he's broken no law. No, there's something more inthis business than that. Don't think that this bright boy wants to hushus up simply because he is a sensitive plant who can't bear to thinkthat people should be cross with him. He has got some private reasonfor wanting to lie low."

  "Well, but what difference--?"

  "Comrade, I'll tell you. It makes this difference: that the rents arealmost certainly collected by some confidential person belonging to hisown crowd, not by an ordinary collector. In other words, the collectorknows the name of the man he's collecting for. But for this littlemisfortune of mine, I was going to suggest that we waylay thatcollector, administer the Third Degree, and ask him who his boss is."

  John uttered an exclamation.

  "You're right! I'll do it."

  "You think you can? Alone?"

  "Sure! Don't you worry. I'll--"

  The door opened and the policeman reappeared.

  "Time's up. Slide, sonny."

  John said good-by to Smith, and went out. He had a last glimpse of hislate editor, a sad smile on his face, telling the policeman what wasapparently a humorous story. Complete good will seemed to exist betweenthem. John consoled himself as he went away with the reflection thatSmith's was a temperament that would probably find a bright side evento a thirty-days' visit to Blackwell's Island.

  He walked thoughtfully back to the office. There was something lonely,and yet wonderfully exhilarating, in the realization that he was nowalone and in sole charge of the campaign. It braced him. For the firsttime in several weeks he felt positively light-hearted.