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!'”