“What’s the idea? What are you going to see him for?”
“We,” corrected Psmith. “I will explain all at a little luncheon at which I trust that you will be my guest. Already, such is the stress of this journalistic life, I hear my tissues crying out imperatively to be restored. An oyster and a glass of milk somewhere round the corner, Comrade Jackson? I think so, I think so.”
…
“I was reading Cosy Moments in there,” said Mike, as they lunched. “You certainly seem to have bucked it up rather. Kid Brady’s reminiscences are hot stuff.”
“Somewhat sizzling, Comrade Jackson,” admitted Psmith. “They have, however, unfortunately cost us a fighting editor.”
“How’s that?”
“Such is the boost we have given Comrade Brady, that he is now never without a match. He has had to leave us to-day to go to White Plains to train for an encounter with a certain Mr. Wood, a four-ounce-glove juggler of established fame.”
“I expect you need a fighting editor, don’t you?”
“He is indispensable, Comrade Jackson, indispensable.”
“No rotting. Has anybody cut up rough about the stuff you’ve printed?”
“Cut up rough? Gadzooks! I need merely say that one critical reader put a bullet through my hat–”
“Rot! Not really?”
“While others kept me tree’d on top of a roof for the space of nearly an hour. Assuredly they have cut up rough, Comrade Jackson.”
“Great Scott! Tell us.”
Psmith briefly recounted the adventures of the past few weeks.
“But, man,” said Mike, when he had finished “why on earth don’t you call in the police?”
“We have mentioned the matter to certain of the force. They appeared tolerably interested, but showed no tendency to leap excitedly to our assistance. The New York policeman, Comrade Jackson, like all great men, is somewhat peculiar. If you go to a New York policeman and exhibit a black eye, he will examine it and express some admiration for the abilities of the citizen responsible for the same. If you press the matter, he becomes bored, and says, ‘Ain’t youse satisfied with what youse got? G’wan!’ His advice in such cases is good, and should be followed. No; since coming to this city I have developed a habit of taking care of myself, or employing private help. That is why I should like you, if you will, to come with me to call upon Comrade Jarvis. He is a person of considerable influence among that section of the populace which is endeavouring to smash in our occiputs. Indeed, I know of nobody who cuts a greater quantity of ice. If I can only enlist Comrade Jarvis’s assistance, all will be well. If you are through with your refreshment, shall we be moving in his direction? By the way, it will probably be necessary in the course of our interview to allude to you as one of our most eminent living cat-fanciers. You do not object? Remember that you have in your English home seventy-four fine cats, mostly Angoras. Are you on to that? Then let us be going. Comrade Maloney has given me the address. It is a goodish step down on the East side. I should like to take a taxi, but it might seem ostentatious. Let us walk.”
…
They found Mr. Jarvis in his Groome Street fancier’s shop, engaged in the intellectual occupation of greasing a cat’s paws with butter. He looked up as they entered, and began to breathe a melody with a certain coyness.
“Comrade Jarvis,” said Psmith, “we meet again. You remember me?”
“Nope,” said Mr. Jarvis, pausing for a moment in the middle of a bar, and then taking up the air where he had left off. Psmith was not discouraged.
“Ah,” he said tolerantly, “the fierce rush of New York life. How it wipes from the retina of to-day the image impressed on it but yesterday. Are you with me, Comrade Jarvis?”
The cat-expert concentrated himself on the cat’s paws without replying.
“A fine animal,” said Psmith, adjusting his eyeglass. “To which particular family of the Felis Domestica does that belong? In colour it resembles a Neapolitan ice more than anything.”
Mr. Jarvis’s manner became unfriendly.
“Say, what do youse want? That’s straight ain’t it? If youse want to buy a boid or a snake why don’t youse say so?”