“What’s been happening?” asked Billy with gleaming eyes.
“Why, nothing in the world to fuss about, only our carriers can’t go out without being beaten up by gangs of toughs. Pat Harrigan’s in the hospital now. Just been looking in on him. Pat’s a feller who likes to fight. Rather fight he would than see a ball-game. But this was too much for him. Know what happened? Why, see here, just like this it was. Pat goes out with his cart. Passing through a low-down street on his way up-town he’s held up by a bunch of toughs. He shows fight. Half a dozen of them attend to him, while the rest gets clean away with every copy of the paper there was in the cart. When the cop comes along, there’s Pat in pieces on the ground and nobody in sight but a Dago chewing gum. Cop asks the Dago what’s been doing, and the Dago says he’s only just come round the corner and ha’n’t seen nothing of anybody. What I want to know is, what’s it all about? Who’s got it in for us and why?”
Mr. Wheeler leaned back in his chair, while Billy, his hair rumpled more than ever and his eyes glowing, explained the situation. Mr. Wheeler listened absolutely unmoved, and, when the narrative had come to an end, gave it as his opinion that the editorial staff had sand. That was his sole comment. “It’s up to you,” he said, rising. “You know your business. Say, though, some one had better get busy right quick and do something to stop these guys rough-housing like this. If we get a few more carriers beat up the way Pat was, there’ll be a strike. It’s not as if they were all Irishmen. The most of them are Dagoes and such, and they don’t want any more fight than they can get by beating their wives and kicking kids off the sidewalk. I’ll do my best to get this paper distributed right and it’s a shame if it ain’t, because it’s going big just now–but it’s up to you. Good day, gents.”
He went out. Psmith looked at Billy.
“As Comrade Wheeler remarks,” he said, “it is up to us. What do you propose to do about it? This is a move of the enemy which I have not anticipated. I had fancied that their operations would be confined exclusively to our two selves. If they are going to strew the street with our carriers, we are somewhat in the soup.”
Billy said nothing. He was chewing the stem of an unlighted pipe. Psmith went on.
“It means, of course, that we must buck up to a certain extent. If the campaign is to be a long one, they have us where the hair is crisp. We cannot stand the strain. Cosy Moments cannot be muzzled, but it can undoubtedly be choked. What we want to do is to find out the name of the man behind the tenements as soon as ever we can and publish it; and, then, if we perish, fall yelling the name.”
Billy admitted the soundness of this scheme, but wished to know how it was to be done.
“Comrade Windsor,” said Psmith. “I have been thinking this thing over, and it seems to me that we are on the wrong track, or rather we aren’t on any track at all; we are simply marking time. What we want to do is to go out and hustle round till we stir up something. Our line up to the present has been to sit at home and scream vigorously in the hope of some stout fellow hearing and rushing to help. In other words, we’ve been saying in the paper what an out-size in scugs the merchant must be who owns those tenements, in the hope that somebody else will agree with us and be sufficiently interested to get to work and find out who the blighter is. That’s all wrong. What we must do now, Comrade Windsor, is put on our hats, such hats as Comrade Repetto has left us, and sally forth as sleuth-hounds on our own account.”
“Yes, but how?” demanded Billy. “That’s all right in theory, but how’s it going to work in practice? The only thing that can corner the man is a commission.”