“More bright young careers than I care to think of,” said Psmith, “have been ruined by the fatal practice of talking shop at dinner. But now that we are through, Comrade Windsor, by all means let us have it. What’s the name which Comrade Gooch so eagerly divulged?”
Billy leaned forward excitedly.
“Stewart Waring,” he whispered.
“Stewart who?” asked Psmith.
Billy stared.
“Great Scott, man!” he said, “haven’t you heard of Stewart Waring?”
“The name seems vaguely familiar, like isinglass or Post-toasties. I seem to know it, but it conveys nothing to me.”
“Don’t you ever read the papers?”
“I toy with my American of a morning, but my interest is confined mainly to the sporting page which reminds me that Comrade Brady has been matched against one Eddie Wood a month from to-day. Gratifying as it is to find one of the staff getting on in life, I fear this will cause us a certain amount of inconvenience. Comrade Brady will have to leave the office temporarily in order to go into training, and what shall we do then for a fighting editor? However, possibly we may not need one now. Cosy Moments should be able shortly to give its message to the world and ease up for a while. Which brings us back to the point. Who is Stewart Waring?”
“Stewart Waring is running for City Alderman. He’s one of the biggest men in New York!”
“Do you mean in girth? If so, he seems to have selected the right career for himself.”
“He’s one of the bosses. He used to be Commissioner of Buildings for the city.”
“Commissioner of Buildings? What exactly did that let him in for?”
“It let him in for a lot of graft.”
“How was that?”
“Oh, he took it off the contractors. Shut his eyes and held out his hands when they ran up rotten buildings that a strong breeze would have knocked down, and places like that Pleasant Street hole without any ventilation.”
“Why did he throw up the job?” inquired Psmith. “it seems to me that it was among the World’s Softest. Certain drawbacks to it, perhaps, to the man with the Hair-Trigger Conscience; but I gather that Comrade Waring did not line up in that class. What was his trouble?”
“His trouble,” said Billy, “was that he stood in with a contractor who was putting up a music-hall, and the contractor put it up with material about as strong as a heap of meringues, and it collapsed on the third night and killed half the audience.”
“And then?”
“The papers raised a howl, and they got after the contractor, and the contractor gave Waring away. It killed him for the time being.”
“I should have thought it would have had that excellent result permanently,” said Psmith thoughtfully. “Do you mean to say he got back again after that?”
“He had to quit being Commissioner, of course, and leave the town for a time; but affairs move so fast here that a thing like that blows over. He made a bit of a pile out of the job, and could afford to lie low for a year or two.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Five years. People don’t remember a thing here that happened five years back unless they’re reminded of it.”
Psmith lit another cigarette.
“We will remind them,” he said.
Billy nodded.
“Of course,” he said, “one or two of the papers against him in this Aldermanic Election business tried to bring the thing up, but they didn’t cut any ice. The other papers said it was a shame, hounding a man who was sorry for the past and who was trying to make good now; so they dropped it. Everybody thought that Waring was on the level now. He’s been shooting off a lot of hot air lately about philanthropy and so on. Not that he has actually done a thing–not so much as given a supper to a dozen news-boys; but he’s talked, and talk gets over if you keep it up long enough.”
Psmith nodded adhesion to this dictum.
“So that naturally he wants to keep it dark about these tenements. It’ll smash him at the election when it gets known.”