“Gents,” he said, “come right in. Mighty glad to see you.”
“It is a relief to me, Comrade Brady,” said Psmith, “to find that you can see us. I had expected to find that Comrade Wolmann’s purposeful buffs had completely closed your star-likes.”
“Sure, I never felt them. He’s a good quick boy, is Al., but,” continued the Kid with powerful imagery, “he couldn’t hit a hole in a block of ice-cream, not if he was to use a hammer.”
“And yet at one period in the proceedings, Comrade Brady,” said Psmith, “I fancied that your head would come unglued at the neck. But the fear was merely transient. When you began to administer those–am I correct in saying?–half-scissor hooks to the body, why, then I felt like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken; or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific.”
The Kid blinked.
“How’s that?” he inquired.
“And why did I feel like that, Comrade Brady? I will tell you. Because my faith in you was justified. Because there before me stood the ideal fighting-editor of Cosy Moments. It is not a post that any weakling can fill. There charm of manner cannot qualify a man for the position. No one can hold down the job simply by having a kind heart or being good at farmyard imitations. No. We want a man of thews and sinews, a man who would rather be hit on the head with a half-brick than not. And you, Comrade Brady, are such a man.”
The Kid turned appealingly to Billy.
“Say, this gets past me, Mr. Windsor. Put me wise.”
“Can we have a couple of words with you alone, Kid?” said Billy. “We want to talk over something with you.”
“Sure. Sit down, gents. Jack’ll be through in a minute.”
Jack, who during this conversation had been concentrating himself on his subject’s left leg, now announced that he guessed that would about do, and having advised the Kid not to stop and pick daisies, but to get into his clothes at once before he caught a chill, bade the company good night and retired.
Billy shut the door.
“Kid,” he said, “you know those articles about the tenements we’ve been having in the paper?”
“Sure. I read ’em. They’re to the good.”
Psmith bowed.
“You stimulate us, Comrade Brady. This is praise from Sir Hubert Stanley.”
“It was about time some strong josher came and put it across to ’em,” added the Kid.
“So we thought. Comrade Parker, however, totally disagreed with us.”
“Parker?”
“That’s what I’m coming to,” said Billy. “The day before yesterday a man named Parker called at the office and tried to buy us off.”
Billy’s voice grew indignant at the recollection.
“You gave him the hook, I guess?” queried the interested Kid.
“To such an extent, Comrade Brady,” said Psmith, “that he left breathing threatenings and slaughter. And it is for that reason that we have ventured to call upon you.”
“It’s this way,” said Billy. “We’re pretty sure by this time that whoever the man is this fellow Parker’s working for has put one of the gangs on to us.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed the Kid. “Gum! Mr. Windsor, they’re tough propositions, those gangs.”
“We’ve been followed in the streets, and once they put up a bluff to get us where they could do us in. So we’ve come along to you. We can look after ourselves out of the office, you see, but what we want is some one to help in case they try to rush us there.”
“In brief, a fighting-editor,” said Psmith. “At all costs we must have privacy. No writer can prune and polish his sentences to his satisfaction if he is compelled constantly to break off in order to eject boisterous hooligans. We therefore offer you the job of sitting in the outer room and intercepting these bravoes before they can reach us. The salary we leave to you. There are doubloons and to spare in the old oak chest. Take what you need and put the rest–if any–back. How does the offer strike you, Comrade Brady?”
“We don’t want to get you in under false pretences, Kid,” said Billy. “Of course, they may not come anywhere near the office. But still, if they did, there would be something doing. What do you feel about it?”