But it did not last. Ten minutes had barely elapsed when the yellow dog, sitting up with a start, uttered a whine. In the outer office could be heard a stir and movement. The next moment the door burst open and a little man dashed in. He had a peeled nose and showed other evidences of having been living in the open air. Behind him was a crowd of uncertain numbers. Psmith recognised the leaders of this crowd. They were the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts and Mr. B. Henderson Asher.
“Why, Comrade Asher,” he said, “this is indeed a Moment of Mirth. I have been wondering for weeks where you could have got to. And Comrade Philpotts! Am I wrong in saying that this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year?”
The rest of the crowd had entered the room.
“Comrade Waterman, too!” cried Psmith. “Why we have all met before. Except–”
He glanced inquiringly at the little man with the peeled nose.
“My name is Wilberfloss,” said the other with austerity. “Will you be so good as to tell me where Mr. Windsor is?”
A murmur of approval from his followers.
“In one moment,” said Psmith. “First, however, let me introduce two important members of our staff. On your right, Mr. Bat Jarvis. On your left, Mr. Long Otto. Both of Groome Street.”
The two Bowery boys rose awkwardly. The cats fell in an avalanche to the floor. Long Otto, in his haste, trod on the dog, which began barking, a process which it kept up almost without a pause during the rest of the interview.
“Mr. Wilberfloss,” said Psmith in an aside to Bat, “is widely known as a cat fancier in Brooklyn circles.”
“Honest?” said Mr. Jarvis. He tapped Mr. Wilberfloss in friendly fashion on the chest. “Say,” he asked, “did youse ever have a cat wit one blue and one yellow eye?”
Mr. Wilberfloss side-stepped and turned once more to Psmith, who was offering B. Henderson Asher a cigarette.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Who am I?” repeated Psmith in an astonished tone.
“Who are you?”
“I am Psmith,” said the old Etonian reverently. “There is a preliminary P before the name. This, however, is silent. Like the tomb. Compare such words as ptarmigan, psalm, and phthisis.”
“These gentlemen tell me you’re acting editor. Who appointed you?”
Psmith reflected.
“It is rather a nice point,” he said. “It might be claimed that I appointed myself. You may say, however, that Comrade Windsor appointed me.”
“Ah! And where is Mr. Windsor?”
“In prison,” said Psmith sorrowfully.
“In prison!”
Psmith nodded.
“It is too true. Such is the generous impulsiveness of Comrade Windsor’s nature that he hit a policeman, was promptly gathered in, and is now serving a sentence of thirty days on Blackwell’s Island.”
Mr. Wilberfloss looked at Mr. Philpotts. Mr. Asher looked at Mr. Wilberfloss. Mr. Waterman started, and stumbled over a cat.
“I never heard of such a thing,” said Mr. Wilberfloss.
A faint, sad smile played across Psmith’s face.
“Do you remember, Comrade Waterman–I fancy it was to you that I made the remark–my commenting at our previous interview on the rashness of confusing the unusual with the improbable? Here we see Comrade Wilberfloss, big-brained though he is, falling into error.”
“I shall dismiss Mr. Windsor immediately,” said the big-brained one.
“From Blackwell’s Island?” said Psmith. “I am sure you will earn his gratitude if you do. They live on bean soup there. Bean soup and bread, and not much of either.”
He broke off, to turn his attention to Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Waterman, between whom bad blood seemed to have arisen. Mr. Jarvis, holding a cat in his arms, was glowering at Mr. Waterman, who had backed away and seemed nervous.
“What is the trouble, Comrade Jarvis?”
“Dat guy dere wit two left feet,” said Bat querulously, “goes and treads on de kit. I–”
“I assure you it was a pure accident. The animal–”
Mr. Wilberfloss, eyeing Bat and the silent Otto with disgust, intervened.
“Who are these persons, Mr. Smith?” he inquired.
“Poisson yourself,” rejoined Bat, justly incensed. “Who’s de little guy wit de peeled breezer, Mr. Smith?”