“Cosy Moments,” said Mr. Wilberfloss irately, “is no medium for exploiting low prize-fighters.”
“Low prize-fighters! Comrade Wilberfloss, you have been misinformed. The Kid is as decent a little chap as you’d meet anywhere. You do not seem to appreciate the philanthropic motives of the paper in adopting Comrade Brady’s cause. Think of it, Comrade Wilberfloss. There was that unfortunate stripling with only two pleasures in life, to love his mother and to knock the heads off other youths whose weight coincided with his own; and misfortune, until we took him up, had barred him almost completely from the second pastime. Our editorial heart was melted. We adopted Comrade Brady. And look at him now! Matched against Eddie Wood! And Comrade Waterman will support me in my statement that a victory over Eddie Wood means that he gets a legitimate claim to meet Jimmy Garvin for the championship.”
“It is abominable,” burst forth Mr. Wilberfloss. “It is disgraceful. I never heard of such a thing. The paper is ruined.”
“You keep reverting to that statement, Comrade Wilberfloss. Can nothing reassure you? The returns are excellent. Prosperity beams on us like a sun. The proprietor is more than satisfied.”
“The proprietor?” gasped Mr. Wilberfloss. “Does he know how you have treated the paper?”
“He is cognisant of our every move.”
“And he approves?”
“He more than approves.”
Mr. Wilberfloss snorted.
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
The assembled ex-contributors backed up this statement with a united murmur. B. Henderson Asher snorted satirically.
“They don’t believe it,” sighed Psmith. “Nevertheless, it is true.”
“It is not true,” thundered Mr. Wilberfloss, hopping to avoid a perambulating cat. “Nothing will convince me of it. Mr. Benjamin White is not a maniac.”
“I trust not,” said Psmith. “I sincerely trust not. I have every reason to believe in his complete sanity. What makes you fancy that there is even a possibility of his being–er–?”
“Nobody but a lunatic would approve of seeing his paper ruined.”
“Again!” said Psmith. “I fear that the notion that this journal is ruined has become an obsession with you, Comrade Wilberfloss. Once again I assure you that it is more than prosperous.”
“If,” said Mr. Wilberfloss, “you imagine that I intend to take your word in this matter, you are mistaken. I shall cable Mr. White to-day, and inquire whether these alterations in the paper meet with his approval.”
“I shouldn’t, Comrade Wilberfloss. Cables are expensive, and in these hard times a penny saved is a penny earned. Why worry Comrade White? He is so far away, so out of touch with our New York literary life. I think it is practically a certainty that he has not the slightest inkling of any changes in the paper.”
Mr. Wilberfloss uttered a cry of triumph.
“I knew it,” he said, “I knew it. I knew you would give up when it came to the point, and you were driven into a corner. Now, perhaps, you will admit that Mr. White has given no sanction for the alterations in the paper?”
A puzzled look crept into Psmith’s face.
“I think, Comrade Wilberfloss,” he said, “we are talking at cross-purposes. You keep harping on Comrade White and his views and tastes. One would almost imagine that you fancied that Comrade White was the proprietor of this paper.”
Mr. Wilberfloss stared. B. Henderson Asher stared. Every one stared, except Mr. Jarvis, who, since the readings from the Kid’s reminiscences had ceased, had lost interest in the discussion, and was now entertaining the cats with a ball of paper tied to a string.
“Fancied that Mr. White…?” repeated Mr. Wilberfloss. “I don’t follow you. Who is, if he isn’t?”
Psmith removed his monocle, polished it thoughtfully, and put it back in its place.
“I am,” he said.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE KNOCK-OUT FOR MR. WARING
“You!” cried Mr. Wilberfloss.
“The same,” said Psmith.
“You!” exclaimed Messrs. Waterman, Asher, and the Reverend Edwin Philpotts.
“On the spot!” said Psmith.
Mr. Wilberfloss groped for a chair and sat down.
“Am I going mad?” he demanded feebly.
“Not so, Comrade Wilberfloss,” said Psmith encouragingly. “All is well. The cry goes round New York, ‘Comrade Wilberfloss is to the good. He does not gibber.'”