“You’re a genius,” said Billy Windsor.
“You think so?” said Psmith diffidently. “Well, well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right. Did you notice the hired ruffian in the flannel suit who just passed? He wore a baffled look, I fancy. And hark! Wasn’t that a muttered ‘Failed!’ I heard? Or was it the breeze moaning in the tree-tops? To-night is a cold, disappointing night for Hired Ruffians, Comrade Windsor.”
CHAPTER XXIII
REDUCTIONS IN THE STAFF
The first member of the staff of Cosy Moments to arrive at the office on the following morning was Master Maloney. This sounds like the beginning of a “Plod and Punctuality,” or “How Great Fortunes have been Made” story; but, as a matter of fact, Master Maloney was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighbourhood, rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at the office at nine o’clock. It was a point of honour with him, a sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before nine-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 had barely got into the first page of his story of life on the prairie when Kid Brady appeared. The Kid, as was his habit when not in training, was smoking a big black cigar. Master Maloney eyed him admiringly. The Kid, unknown to that gentleman himself, was Pugsy’s ideal. He came from the Plains; and had, indeed, once actually been a cowboy; he was a coming champion; and he could smoke black cigars. It was, therefore, without his usual well-what-is-it-now? air that Pugsy laid down his book, and prepared to converse.
“Say, Mr. Smith or Mr. Windsor about, Pugsy?” asked the Kid.
“Naw, Mr. Brady, they ain’t came yet,” replied Master Maloney respectfully.
“Late, ain’t they?”
“Sure. Mr. Windsor generally blows in before I do.”
“Wonder what’s keepin’ them.”
“P’raps, dey’ve bin put out of business,” suggested Pugsy nonchalantly.
“How’s that?”
Pugsy related the events of the previous day, relaxing something of his austere calm as he did so. When he came to the part where the Table Hill allies swooped down on the unsuspecting Three Pointers, he was almost animated.
“Say,” said the Kid approvingly, “that Smith guy’s got more grey matter under his thatch than you’d think to look at him. I–”
“Comrade Brady,” said a voice in the doorway, “you do me proud.”
“Why, say,” said the Kid, turning, “I guess the laugh’s on me. I didn’t see you, Mr. Smith. Pugsy’s been tellin’ me how you sent him for the Table Hills yesterday. That was cute. It was mighty smart. But say, those guys are goin’ some, ain’t they now! Seems as if they was dead set on puttin’ you out of business.”
“Their manner yesterday, Comrade Brady, certainly suggested the presence of some sketchy outline of such an ideal in their minds. One Sam, in particular, an ebony-hued sportsman, threw himself into the task with great vim. I rather fancy he is waiting for us with his revolver to this moment. But why worry? Here we are, safe and sound, and Comrade Windsor may be expected to arrive at any moment. I see, Comrade Brady, that you have been matched against one Eddie Wood.”
“It’s about that I wanted to see you, Mr. Smith. Say, now that things have been and brushed up so, what with these gang guys layin’ for you the way they’re doin’, I guess you’ll be needin’ me around here. Isn’t that right? Say the word and I’ll call off this Eddie Wood fight.”
“Comrade Brady,” said Psmith with some enthusiasm, “I call that a sporting offer. I’m very much obliged. But we mustn’t stand in your way. If you eliminate this Comrade Wood, they will have to give you a chance against Jimmy Garvin, won’t they?”
“I guess that’s right, sir,” said the Kid. “Eddie stayed nineteen rounds against Jimmy, and if I can put him away, it gets me into line with Jimmy, and he can’t side-step me.”