Psmith, meeting Mr. Parker’s eye, smiled pleasantly. There was no answering smile on the other’s face.
There came the sound of the Kid’s feet grating on the road as he turned; and as he heard it Mr. Parker, that eminent tactician, for the first time lost his head. With a vague idea of screening Psmith from the eyes of the man in the road he half rose. For an instant the muzzle of the pistol ceased to point at Psmith’s waistcoat. It was the very chance Psmith had been waiting for. His left hand shot out, grasped the other’s wrist, and gave it a sharp wrench. The revolver went off with a deafening report, the bullet passing through the back of the cab; then fell to the floor, as the fingers lost their hold. The next moment Psmith’s right fist, darting upwards, took Mr. Parker neatly under the angle of the jaw.
The effect was instantaneous. Psmith had risen from his seat as he delivered the blow, and it consequently got the full benefit of his weight, which was not small. Mr. Parker literally crumpled up. His head jerked back, then fell limply on his chest. He would have slipped to the floor had not Psmith pushed him on to the seat.
The interested face of the Kid appeared at the window. Behind him could be seen portions of the faces of the two thick-necks.
“Ah, Comrade Brady!” said Psmith genially. “I heard your voice, and was hoping you might look in for a chat.”
“What’s doin’, Mr. Smith?” queried the excited Kid.
“Much, Comrade Brady, much. I will tell you all anon. Meanwhile, however, kindly knock that chauffeur down and sit on his head. He’s a bad person.”
“De guy’s beat it,” volunteered the first thick-neck.
“Surest thing you know,” said the other.
“What’s been doin’, Mr. Smith?” asked the Kid.
“I’ll tell you about it as we go, Comrade Brady,” said Psmith, stepping into the road. “Riding in a taxi is pleasant provided it is not overdone. For the moment I have had sufficient. A bit of walking will do me good.”
“What are you going to do with this guy, Mr. Smith?” asked the Kid, pointing to Parker, who had begun to stir slightly.
Psmith inspected the stricken one gravely.
“I have no use for him, Comrade Brady,” he said. “Our ride together gave me as much of his society as I desire for to-day. Unless you or either of your friends are collecting Parkers, I propose that we leave him where he is. We may as well take the gun, however. In my opinion, Comrade Parker is not the proper man to have such a weapon. He is too prone to go firing it off in any direction at a moment’s notice, causing inconvenience to all.” He groped on the floor of the cab for the revolver. “Now, Comrade Brady,” he said, straightening himself up, “I am at your disposal. Shall we be pushing on?”
…
It was late in the evening when Psmith returned to the metropolis, after a pleasant afternoon at the Brady training-camp. The Kid, having heard the details of the ride, offered once more to abandon his match with Eddie Wood, but Psmith would not hear of it. He was fairly satisfied that the opposition had fired their last shot, and that their next move would be to endeavour to come to terms. They could not hope to catch him off his guard a second time, and, as far as hired assault and battery were concerned, he was as safe in New York, now that Bat Jarvis had declared himself on his side, as he would have been in the middle of a desert. What Bat said was law on the East Side. No hooligan, however eager to make money, would dare to act against a protege of the Groome Street leader.
The only flaw in Psmith’s contentment was the absence of Billy Windsor. On this night of all nights the editorial staff of Cosy Moments should have been together to celebrate the successful outcome of their campaign. Psmith dined alone, his enjoyment of the rather special dinner which he felt justified in ordering in honour of the occasion somewhat diminished by the thought of Billy’s hard case. He had seen Mr William Collier in The Man from Mexico, and that had given him an understanding of what a term of imprisonment on Blackwell’s Island meant. Billy, during these lean days, must be supporting life on bread, bean soup, and water. Psmith, toying with the hors d’oeuvre, was somewhat saddened by the thought.