…
All was quiet at the office on the following day. Bat Jarvis, again accompanied by the faithful Otto, took up his position in the inner room, prepared to repel all invaders; but none arrived. No sounds broke the peace of the outer office except the whistling of Master Maloney.
Things were almost dull when the telephone bell rang. Psmith took down the receiver.
“Hullo?” he said.
“I’m Parker,” said a moody voice.
Psmith uttered a cry of welcome.
“Why, Comrade Parker, this is splendid! How goes it? Did you get back all right yesterday? I was sorry to have to tear myself away, but I had other engagements. But why use the telephone? Why not come here in person? You know how welcome you are. Hire a taxi-cab and come right round.”
Mr. Parker made no reply to the invitation.
“Mr. Waring would like to see you.”
“Who, Comrade Parker?”
“Mr. Stewart Waring.”
“The celebrated tenement house-owner?”
Silence from the other end of the wire. “Well,” said Psmith, “what step does he propose to take towards it?”
“He tells me to say that he will be in his office at twelve o’clock to-morrow morning. His office is in the Morton Building, Nassau Street.”
Psmith clicked his tongue regretfully.
“Then I do not see how we can meet,” he said. “I shall be here.”
“He wishes to see you at his office.”
“I am sorry, Comrade Parker. It is impossible. I am very busy just now, as you may know, preparing the next number, the one in which we publish the name of the owner of the Pleasant Street Tenements. Otherwise, I should be delighted. Perhaps later, when the rush of work has diminished somewhat.”
“Am I to tell Mr. Waring that you refuse?”
“If you are seeing him at any time and feel at a loss for something to say, perhaps you might mention it. Is there anything else I can do for you, Comrade Parker?”
“See here–”
“Nothing? Then good-bye. Look in when you’re this way.”
He hung up the receiver.
As he did so, he was aware of Master Maloney standing beside the table.
“Yes, Comrade Maloney?”
“Telegram,” said Pugsy. “For Mr. Windsor.”
Psmith ripped open the envelope.
The message ran:
“Returning to-day. Will be at office to-morrow morning,” and it was signed “Wilberfloss.”
“See who’s here!” said Psmith softly.
CHAPTER XXVIII
STANDING ROOM ONLY
In the light of subsequent events it was perhaps the least bit unfortunate that Mr. Jarvis should have seen fit to bring with him to the office of Cosy Moments on the following morning two of his celebrated squad of cats, and that Long Otto, who, as usual, accompanied him, should have been fired by his example to the extent of introducing a large and rather boisterous yellow dog. They were not to be blamed, of course. They could not know that before the morning was over space in the office would be at a premium. Still, it was unfortunate.
Mr. Jarvis was slightly apologetic.
“T’ought I’d bring de kits along,” he said. “Dey started in scrappin’ yesterday when I was here, so to-day I says I’ll keep my eye on dem.”
Psmith inspected the menagerie without resentment.
“Assuredly, Comrade Jarvis,” he said. “They add a pleasantly cosy and domestic touch to the scene. The only possible criticism I can find to make has to do with their probable brawling with the dog.”
“Oh, dey won’t scrap wit de dawg. Dey knows him.”
“But is he aware of that? He looks to me a somewhat impulsive animal. Well, well, the matter’s in your hands. If you will undertake to look after the refereeing of any pogrom that may arise, I say no more.”
Mr. Jarvis’s statement as to the friendly relations between the animals proved to be correct. The dog made no attempt to annihilate the cats. After an inquisitive journey round the room he lay down and went to sleep, and an era of peace set in. The cats had settled themselves comfortably, one on each of Mr. Jarvis’s knees, and Long Otto, surveying the ceiling with his customary glassy stare, smoked a long cigar in silence. Bat breathed a tune, and scratched one of the cats under the ear. It was a soothing scene.