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The Prince and Betty

P >> P. G. Wodehouse >> The Prince and Betty




"Financial? Do you mean that he may possibly have to spend some of his
spare doubloons in making Broster Street fit to live in?"

"It's not so much the money. It's the publicity. There are reasons why
he would prefer not to have it made too public that he's the owner of
the tenements down there."

"Well, he knows what to do. If he makes Broster Street fit for a
not-too-fastidious pig to live in--"

Mr. Parker coughed. A tentative cough, suggesting that the situation
was now about to enter upon a more delicate phase.

"Now, see here, sir," he said, "I'm going to be frank. I'm going to put
my cards on the table, and see if we can't fix something up. Now, see
here. We don't want any unpleasantness. You aren't in this business for
your health, eh? You've got your living to make, same as everybody
else, I guess. Well, this is how it stands. To a certain extent, I
don't mind owning, since we're being frank with one another, you've got
us--that's to say, this gentleman I'm speaking of--in a cleft stick.
Frankly, that Broster Street story of yours has attracted attention--I
saw it myself in two Sunday papers--and if there's going to be any more
of them--Well, now, here's a square proposition. How much do you want
to stop those articles? That's straight. I've been frank with you, and
I want you to be frank with me. What's your figure? Name it, and if you
don't want the earth I guess we needn't quarrel."

He looked expectantly at Smith. Smith, gazing sadly at him through his
monocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old Roman
senator dealing with the enemies of the Republic.

"Comrade Parker," he said, "I fear that you have allowed your
intercourse with this worldly city to undermine your moral sense. It is
useless to dangle rich bribes before the editorial eyes. _Peaceful
Moments_ cannot be muzzled. You doubtless mean well, according to
your somewhat murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at fifteen
cents weekly. From the hills of Maine to the Everglades of Florida,
from Portland, Oregon, to Melonsquashville, Tennessee, one sentence is
in every man's mouth. And what is that sentence? I give you three
guesses. You give it up? It is this: '_Peaceful Moments_ cannot be
muzzled!'"

Mr. Parker rose.

"Nothing doing, then?" he said.

"Nothing."

Mr. Parker picked up his hat.

"See here," he said, a grating note in his voice, hitherto smooth and
conciliatory, "I've no time to fool away talking to you. I've given you
your chance. Those stories are going to be stopped. And if you've any
sense in you at all, you'll stop them yourself before you get hurt.
That's all I've got to say, and that goes."

He went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that added
emphasis to his words.

"All very painful and disturbing," murmured Smith. "Comrade Brown!" he
called.

Betty came in.

"Did our late visitor bite a piece out of you on his way out? He was in
the mood to do something of the sort."

"He seemed angry," said Betty.

"He _was_ angry," said Smith. "Do you know what has happened,
Comrade Brown? With your very first contribution to the paper you have
hit the bull's-eye. You have done the state some service. Friend Parker
came as the representative of the owner of those Broster Street houses.
He wanted to buy us off. We've got them scared, or he wouldn't have
shown his hand with such refreshing candor. Have you any engagements at
present?"

"I was just going out to lunch, if you could spare me."

"Not alone. This lunch is on the office. As editor of this journal I
will entertain you, if you will allow me, to a magnificent banquet.
_Peaceful Moments_ is grateful to you. _Peaceful Moments,"_
he added, with the contented look the Far West editor must have worn as
the bullet came through the window, "is, owing to you, going some now."

* * * * *

When they returned from lunch, and reentered the outer office, Pugsy
Maloney, raising his eyes for a moment from his book, met them with the
information that another caller had arrived and was waiting in the
inner room.

"Dere's a guy in dere waitin' to see youse," he said, jerking his head
towards the door.

"Yet another guy? This is our busy day. Did he give a name?"

"Says his name's Maude," said Master Maloney, turning a page.

"Maude!" cried Betty, falling back.

Smith beamed.

"Old John Maude!" he said. "Great! I've been wondering what on earth
he's been doing with himself all this time. Good-old John! You'll like
him," he said, turning, and stopped abruptly, for he was speaking to
the empty air. Betty had disappeared.

"Where's Miss Brown, Pugsy?" he said. "Where did she go?"

Pugsy vouchsafed another jerk of the head, in the direction of the
outer door.

"She's beaten it," he said. "I seen her make a break for de stairs.
Guess she's forgotten to remember somet'ing," he added indifferently,
turning once more to his romance of prairie life. "Goils is
bone-heads."




CHAPTER XVII

THE MAN AT THE ASTOR


Refraining from discussing with Master Maloney the alleged
bone-headedness of girls, Smith went through into the inner room, and
found John sitting in the editorial chair, glancing through the latest
number of _Peaceful Moments_.

"Why, John, friend of my youth," he said, "where have you been hiding
all this time? I called you up at your office weeks ago, and an acid
voice informed me that you were no longer there. Have you been fired?"

"Yes," said John. "Why aren't you on the _News_ any more? Nobody
seemed to know where you were, till I met Faraday this morning, who
told me you were here."

Smith was conscious of an impression that in some subtle way John had
changed since their last meeting. For a moment he could not have said
what had given him this impression. Then it flashed upon him. Before,
John had always been, like Mrs. Fezziwig in "The Christmas Carol," one
vast substantial smile. He had beamed cheerfully on what to him was
evidently the best of all possible worlds. Now, however, it would seem
that doubts had occurred to him as to the universal perfection of
things. His face was graver. His eyes and his mouth alike gave evidence
of disturbing happenings.

In the matter of confidences, Smith was not a believer in spade-work.
If they were offered to him, he was invariably sympathetic, but he
never dug for them. That John had something on his mind was obvious,
but he intended to allow him, if he wished to reveal it, to select his
own time for the revelation.

John, for his part, had no intention of sharing this particular trouble
even with Smith. It was too new and intimate for discussion.

It was only since his return to New York that the futility of his quest
had really come home to him. In the belief of having at last escaped
from Mervo he had been inclined to overlook obstacles. It had seemed to
him, while he waited for his late subjects to dismiss him, that, once
he could move, all would be simple. New York had dispelled that idea.
Logically, he saw with perfect clearness, there was no reason why he
and Betty should ever meet again.

To retain a spark of hope beneath this knowledge was not easy and John,
having been in New York now for nearly three weeks without any
encouragement from the fates, was near the breaking point. A gray
apathy had succeeded the frenzied restlessness of the first few days.
The necessity for some kind of work that would to some extent occupy
his mind was borne in upon him, and the thought of Smith had followed
naturally. If anybody could supply distraction, it would be Smith.
Faraday, another of the temporary exiles from the _News_, whom he
had met by chance in Washington Square, had informed him of Smith's new
position and of the renaissance of _Peaceful Moments_, and he had
hurried to the office to present himself as an unskilled but willing
volunteer to the cause. Inspection of the current number of the paper
had convinced him that the _Peaceful Moments_ atmosphere, if it
could not cure, would at least relieve.

"Faraday told me all about what you had done to this paper," he said.
"I came to see if you would let me in on it. I want work."

"Excellent!" said Smith. "Consider yourself one of us."

"I've never done any newspaper work, of course, but--"

"Never!" cried Smith. "Is it so long since the deaf old college days
that you forget the _Gridiron?"_

In their last year at Harvard, Smith and John, assisted by others of a
congenial spirit, had published a small but lively magazine devoted to
college topics, with such success--from one point of view--that on the
appearance of the third number it was suppressed by the authorities.

"You were the life and soul of the _Gridiron,"_ went on Smith.
"You shall be the life and soul of _Peaceful Moments_. You have
special qualifications for the post. A young man once called at the
office of a certain newspaper, and asked for a job. 'Have you any
specialty?' enquired the editor. 'Yes,' replied the bright boy, 'I am
rather good at invective.' 'Any particular kind of invective?' queried
the man up top. 'No,' replied our hero, 'just general invective.' Such
is your case, my son. You have a genius for general invective. You are
the man _Peaceful Moments_ has been waiting for."

"If you think so--"

"I do think so. Let us consider it settled. And now, tell me, what do
you think of our little journal?"

"Well--aren't you asking for trouble? Isn't the proprietor--?"

Smith waved his hand airily.

"Dismiss him from your mind," he said. "He is a gentleman of the name
of Benjamin Scobell, who--"

"Benjamin Scobell!"

"Who lives in Europe and never sees the paper. I happen to know that he
is anxious to get rid of it. His solicitors have instructions to accept
any reasonable offer. If only I could close in on a small roll, I would
buy it myself, for by the time we have finished our improvements, it
will be a sound investment for the young speculator. Have you read the
Broster Street story? It has hit somebody already. Already some unknown
individual is grasping the lemon in his unwilling fingers. And--to
remove any diffidence you may still have about lending your sympathetic
aid--that was written by no hardened professional, but by our
stenographer. She'll be in soon, and I'll introduce you. You'll like
her. I do not despair, later on, of securing an epoch-making
contribution from Comrade Maloney."

As he spoke, that bulwark of the paper entered in person, bearing an
envelope.

"Ah, Comrade Maloney," said Smith. "Is that your contribution? What is
the subject? 'Mustangs I have Met?'"

"A kid brought dis," said Pugsy. "Dere ain't no answer."

Smith read the letter with raised eyebrows.

"We shall have to get another stenographer," he said. "The gifted
author of our Broster Street series has quit."

"Oh!" said John, not interested.

"Quit at a moment's notice and without explanation. I can't understand
it."

"I guess she had some reason," said John, absently. He was inclined to
be absent during these days. His mind was always stealing away to
occupy itself with the problem of the discovery of Betty. The motives
that might have led a stenographer to resign her position had no
interest for him.

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, Woman, Woman!" he said resignedly.

"She says she will send in some more Broster Street stuff, though,
which is a comfort. But I'm sorry she's quit. You would have liked
her."

"Yes?" said John.

At this moment there came from the outer office a piercing squeal. It
penetrated into the editorial sanctum, losing only a small part of its
strength on the way. Smith looked up with patient sadness.

"If Comrade Maloney," he said, "is going to take to singing during
business hours, I fear this journal must put up its shutters.
Concentrated thought will be out of the question."

He moved to the door and flung it open as a second squeal rent the air,
and found Master Maloney writhing in the grip of a tough-looking person
in patched trousers and a stained sweater. His left ear was firmly
grasped between the stranger's finger and thumb.

The tough person released Pugsy, and, having eyed Smith keenly for a
moment, made a dash for the stairs, leaving the guardian of the gate
rubbing his ear resentfully.

"He blows in," said Master Maloney, aggrieved, "an' asks is de editor
in. I tells him no, an' he nips me by the ear when I tries to stop him
buttin' t'roo."

"Comrade Maloney," said Smith, "you are a martyr. What would Horatius
have done if somebody had nipped him by the ear when he was holding the
bridge? It might have made all the difference. Did the gentleman state
his business?"

"Nope. Just tried to butt t'roo."

"One of these strong, silent men. The world is full of us. These are
the perils of the journalistic life. You will be safer and happier when
you are a cowboy, Comrade Maloney."

Smith was thoughtful as he returned to the inner room.

"Things are warming up, John," he said. "The sport who has just left
evidently came just to get a sight of me. Otherwise, why should he tear
himself away without stopping for a chat. I suppose he was sent to mark
me down for whichever gang Comrade Parker is employing."

"What do you mean?" said John. "All this gets past me. Who is Parker?"

Smith related the events leading up to Mr. Parker's visit, and
described what had happened on that occasion.

"So, before you throw in your lot with this journal," he concluded, "it
would be well to think the matter over. You must weigh the pros and
cons. Is your passion for literature such that you do not mind being
put out of business with a black-jack for the cause? Will the knowledge
that a low-browed gentleman is waiting round the corner for you
stimulate or hinder you in your work? There's no doubt now that we are
up against a tough crowd."

"By Jove!" said John. "I hadn't a notion it was like that."

"You feel, then, that on the whole--"

"I feel that on the whole this is just the business I've been hunting
for. You couldn't keep me out of it now with an ax."

Smith looked at him curiously, but refrained from enquiries. That there
must be something at the back of this craving for adventure and
excitement, he knew. The easy-going John he had known of old would
certainly not have deserted the danger zone, but he would not have
welcomed entry to it so keenly. It was plain that he was hungry for
work that would keep him from thought. Smith was eminently a patient
young man, and though the problem of what upheaval had happened to
change John to such an extent interested him greatly, he was prepared
to wait for explanations.

Of the imminence of the danger he was perfectly aware. He had known
from the first that Mr. Parker's concluding words were not an empty
threat. His experience as a reporter had given him the knowledge that
is only given in its entirety to police and newspaper men: that there
are two New Yorks--one, a modern, well-policed city, through which one
may walk from end to end without encountering adventure; the other, a
city as full of sinister intrigue, of whisperings and conspiracies, of
battle, murder, and sudden death in dark byways, as any town of
mediaeval Italy. Given certain conditions, anything may happen in New
York. And Smith realized that these conditions now prevailed in his own
case. He had come into conflict with New York's underworld.
Circumstances had placed him below the surface, where only his wits
could help him.

He would have been prepared to see the thing through by himself, but
there was no doubt that John as an ally would be a distinct comfort.

Nevertheless, he felt compelled to give his friend a last chance of
withdrawing.

"You know," he said, "there is really no reason why you should--"

"But I'm going to," interrupted John. "That's all there is to it.
What's going to happen, anyway? I don't know anything about these
gangs. I thought they spent all their time shooting each other up."

"Not all, unfortunately, Comrade John. They are always charmed to take
on a small job like this on the side."

"And what does it come to? Do we have an entire gang camping on our
trail in a solid mass, or only one or two toughs?"

"Merely a section, I should imagine. Comrade Parker would go to the
main boss of the gang--Bat Jarvis, if it was the Groome Street gang, or
Spider Reilly and Dude Dawson if he wanted the Three Points or the
Table Hill lot. The boss would chat over the matter with his own
special partners, and they would fix it up among themselves. The rest
of the gang would probably know nothing about it. The fewer in the
game, you see, the fewer to divide the Parker dollars. So what we have
to do is to keep a lookout for a dozen or so aristocrats of that
dignified deportment which comes from constant association with the
main boss, and, if we can elude these, all will be well."

* * * * *

It was by Smith's suggestion that the editorial staff of _Peaceful
Moments_ dined that night at the Astor roof-garden.

"The tired brain," he said, "needs to recuperate. To feed on such a
night as this in some low-down hostelry on the level of the street,
with German waiters breathing heavily down the back of one's neck and
two fiddles and a piano hitting up ragtime about three feet from one's
tympanum, would be false economy. Here, fanned by cool breezes and
surrounded by passably fair women and brave men, one may do a certain
amount of tissue-restoring. Moreover, there is little danger up here of
being slugged by our moth-eaten acquaintance of this afternoon. We
shall probably find him waiting for us at the main entrance with a
black-jack, but till then--"

He turned with gentle grace to his soup. It was a warm night, and the
roof-garden was full. From where they sat they could see the million
twinkling lights of the city. John, watching them, as he smoked a
cigarette at the conclusion of the meal, had fallen into a dream. He
came to himself with a start, to find Smith in conversation with a
waiter.

"Yes, my name is Smith," he was saying.

The waiter retired to one of the tables and spoke to a young man
sitting there. John, recollected having seen this solitary diner
looking in their direction once or twice during dinner, but the fact
had not impressed him.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"The man at that table sent over to ask if my name was Smith. It was.
He is now coming along to chat in person. I wonder why. I don't know
him from Adam."

The stranger was threading his way between the tables.

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Smith?" he said. The waiter brought a
chair and he seated himself.

"By the way," said Smith, "my friend, Mr. Maude. Your own name will
doubtless come up in the course of general chitchat over the
coffee-cups."

"Not on your tintype it won't," said the stranger decidedly. "It won't
be needed. Is Mr. Maude on your paper? That's all right, then. I can go
ahead."

He turned to Smith.

"It's about that Broster Street thing."

"More fame!" murmured Smith. "We certainly are making a hit with the
great public over Broster Street."

"Well, you understand certain parties have got it in against you?"

"A charming conversationalist, one Comrade Parker, hinted at something
of the sort in a recent conversation. We shall endeavor, however, to
look after ourselves."

"You'll need to. The man behind is a big bug."

"Who is he?"

The stranger shrugged his shoulders.

"Search me. You wouldn't expect him to give that away."

"Then on what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman's
bug-hood? What makes you think that he's a big bug?"

"By the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you put
through."

Smith's eyes gleamed for an instant, but he spoke as coolly as ever.

"Oh!" he said. "And which gang has he hired?"

"I couldn't say. He--his agent, that is--came to Bat Jarvis. Bat for
some reason turned the job down."

"He did? Why?"

"Search me. Nobody knows. But just as soon as he heard who it was he
was being asked to lay for, he turned it down cold. Said none of his
fellows was going to put a finger on anyone who had anything to do with
your paper. I don't know what you've been doing to Bat, but he sure is
the long-lost brother to you."

"A powerful argument in favor of kindness to animals!" said Smith. "One
of his celebrated stud of cats came into the possession of our
stenographer. What did she do? Instead of having the animal made into a
nourishing soup, she restored it to its bereaved owner. Observe the
sequel. We are very much obliged to Comrade Jarvis."

"He sent me along," went on the stranger, "to tell you to watch out,
because one of the other gangs was dead sure to take on the job. And he
said you were to know that he wasn't mixed up in it. Well, that's all.
I'll be pushing along. I've a date. Glad to have met you, Mr. Maude.
Good-night."

For a few moments after he had gone, Smith and John sat smoking in
silence.

"What's the time?" asked Smith suddenly. "If it's not too late--Hello,
here comes our friend once more."

The stranger came up to the table, a light overcoat over his dress
clothes. From the pocket of this he produced a watch.

"Force of habit," he said apologetically, handing it to John. "You'll
pardon me. Good-night again."




CHAPTER XVIII

THE HIGHFIELD


John looked after him, open-mouthed. The events of the evening had
been a revelation to him. He had not realized the ramifications of New
York's underworld. That members of the gangs should appear in gorgeous
raiment in the Astor roof-garden was a surprise. "And now," said Smith,
"that our friend has so sportingly returned your watch, take a look at
it and see the time. Nine? Excellent. We shall do it comfortably."

"What's that?" asked John.

"Our visit to the Highfield. A young friend of mine who is fighting
there to-night sent me tickets a few days ago. In your perusal of
_Peaceful Moments_ you may have chanced to see mention of one Kid
Brady. He is the man. I was intending to go in any case, but an idea
has just struck me that we might combine pleasure with business. Has it
occurred to you that these black-jack specialists may drop in on us at
the office? And, if so, that Comrade Maloney's statement that we are
not in may be insufficient to keep them out? Comrade Brady would be an
invaluable assistant. And as we are his pugilistic sponsors, without
whom he would not have got this fight at all, I think we may say that
he will do any little thing we may ask of him."

It was certainly true that, from the moment the paper had taken up his
cause, Kid Brady's star had been in the ascendant. The sporting pages
of the big dailies had begun to notice him, until finally the
management of the Highfield Club had signed him on for a ten-round bout
with a certain Cyclone Dick Fisher.

"He should," continued Smith, "if equipped in any degree with the finer
feelings, be bubbling over with gratitude toward us. At any rate, it is
worth investigating."

* * * * *

Far away from the comfortable glare of Broadway, in a place of
disheveled houses and insufficient street-lamps, there stands the old
warehouse which modern enterprise has converted into the Highfield
Athletic and Gymnastic Club. The imagination, stimulated by the title,
conjures up picture-covered walls, padded chairs, and seas of white
shirt front. The Highfield differs in some respects from this fancy
picture. Indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it does
not differ. But these names are so misleading! The title under which
the Highfield used to be known till a few years back was "Swifty
Bob's." It was a good, honest title. You knew what to export, and if
you attended seances at Swifty Bob's you left your gold watch and your
little savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugilistic feeling swept
over the New York authorities. Promoters of boxing contests found
themselves, to their acute disgust, raided by the police. The industry
began to languish. Persons avoided places where at any moment the
festivities might be marred by an inrush of large men in blue uniforms,
armed with locust sticks.

And then some big-brained person suggested the club idea, which stands
alone as an example of American dry humor. At once there were no boxing
contests in New York; Swifty Bob and his fellows would have been
shocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happened now was
exhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true that
next day the papers very tactlessly reported the friendly exhibition
spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that was not the
fault of Swifty Bob.

Kid Brady, the chosen of _Peaceful Moments_, was billed for a
"ten-round exhibition contest," to be the main event of the evening's
entertainment.

* * * * *

A long journey on the subway took them to the neighborhood, and after
considerable wandering they arrived at their destination.

Smith's tickets were for a ring-side box, a species of sheep pen of
unpolished wood, with four hard chairs in it. The interior of the
Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club was severely free from anything
in the shape of luxury and ornament. Along the four walls were raised
benches in tiers. On these were seated as tough-looking a collection of
citizens as one might wish to see. On chairs at the ringside were the
reporters with tickers at their sides. In the center of the room,
brilliantly lighted by half-a-dozen electric chandeliers, was the ring.

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