Pelham Wodehouse - The Prince and Betty

"Pretty rich guy inside," he said, following up his companion's train of thought. "I'm going to rubber through the window."

John met Mr. Parker's eye, and smiled.

There came the sound of the Kid's feet grating on the road, as he turned, and, as he heard it, Mr. Parker for the first time lost his head. With a vague idea of screening John, he half-rose. The pistol wavered. It was the chance John had prayed for. His left hand shot out, grasped the other's wrist, and gave it a sharp wrench. The pistol 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. And the next moment John's right fist, darting upward, crashed home.

The effect was instantaneous. John had risen from his seat as he delivered the blow, and it got the full benefit of his weight. Mr. Parker literally crumpled up. His head jerked, then fell limply forward. John pushed him on to the seat as he slid toward the floor.

The interested face of the Kid appeared at the window. Behind him could be seen portions of the faces of the two thick-necks.

"Hello, Kid," said John. "I heard your voice. I hoped you might look in for a chat."

The Kid stared, amazed.

"What's doin'?" he queried.

"A good deal. I'll explain later. First, will you kindly knock that chauffeur down and sit on his head?"

"De guy's beat it," volunteered the first thick-neck.

"Surest thing you know," said the other.

"What's been doin'?" asked the Kid. "What are you going to do with this guy?"

John inspected the prostrate Mr. Parker, who had begun to stir slightly.

"I guess we'll leave him here," he said. "I've had all of his company that I need for to-day. Show me the nearest station, Kid. I must be getting back to New York. I'll tell you all about it as we go. A walk will do me good. Riding in a taxi is pleasant, but, believe me, you can have too much of it."

When John returned to the office, he found that his absence had been causing Betty an anxious hour's waiting. She had been informed by Pugsy that he had gone out in the company of Mr. Parker, and she felt uneasy. She turned white at his story of the ride, but he minimized the dangers.

"I don't think he ever meant to shoot. I think he was going to shut me up somewhere out there, and keep me till I promised to be good."

"Do you think my stepfather told him to do it?"

"I doubt it. I fancy Parker is a man who acts a good deal on his own inspirations. But we'll ask him, when he calls to-day."

"Is he going to call?"

"I have an idea he will," said John. "I sent him a note just now, asking if he could manage a visit."

It was unfortunate, in the light of subsequent events, that Mr. Jarvis should have seen fit to bring with him to the office that afternoon two of his collection of cats, and that Long Otto, who, as before, accompanied him, should have been fired by his example to the extent of introducing a large yellow dog For before the afternoon was ended, space in the office was destined to be at premium.

Mr. Jarvis, when he had recovered from the surprise of seeing Betty and learning that she had returned to her old situation, explained:

"T'ought I'd bring de kits along," he said. "Dey starts fuss'n' wit' each odder yesterday, so I brings dem along."

John inspected the menagerie without resentment.

"Sure!" he said. "They add a kind of peaceful touch to the scene."

The atmosphere was, indeed, one of peace. The dog, after an inquisitive journey round the room, lay down and went to sleep. The cats settled themselves comfortably, one on each of Mr. Jarvis' knees. Long Otto, surveying the ceiling with his customary glassy stare, smoked a long cigar. And Bat, scratching one of the cats under the ear, began to entertain John with some reminiscences of fits and kittens.

But the peace did not last. Ten minutes had barely elapsed when the dog, sitting up with a start, uttered a whine. The door burst open and a little man dashed in. He was brown in the face, and had evidently been living recently in the open air. Behind him was a crowd of uncertain numbers. They were all strangers to John.

"Yes?" he said.

The little man glared speechlessly at the occupants of the room. The two Bowery boys rose awkwardly. The cats fell to the floor.

The rest of the party had entered. Betty recognized the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts and Mr. B. Henderson Asher.

"My name is Renshaw," said the little man, having found speech.

"What can I do for you?" asked John.

The question appeared to astound the other.

"What can you—! Of all—!"

"Mr. Renshaw is the editor of Peaceful Moments ," she said. "Mr. Smith was only acting for him."

Mr. Renshaw caught the name.

"Yes. Mr. Smith. I want to see Mr. Smith. Where is he?"

"In prison," said John.

"In prison!"

John nodded.

"A good many things have happened since you left for your vacation. Smith assaulted a policeman, and is now on Blackwell's Island."

Mr. Renshaw gasped. Mr. B. Henderson Asher stared, and stumbled over the cat.

"And who are you?" asked the editor.

"My name is Maude. I—"

He broke off, to turn his attention to Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Asher, between whom unpleasantness seemed to have arisen. Mr. Jarvis, holding a cat in his arms, was scowling at Mr. Asher, who had backed away and appeared apprehensive.

"What is the trouble?" asked John.

"Dis guy here wit' two left feet," said Bat querulously, "treads on de kit."

Mr. Renshaw, eying Bat and the silent Otto with disgust, intervened.

"Who are these persons?" he enquired.

"Poison yourself," rejoined Bat, justly incensed. "Who's de little squirt, Mr. Maude?"

John waved his hands.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said, "why descend to mere personalities? I ought to have introduced you. This is Mr. Renshaw, our editor. These, Mr. Renshaw, are Bat Jarvis and Long Otto, our acting fighting editors, vice Kid Brady, absent on unavoidable business."

The name stung Mr. Renshaw to indignation, as Smith's had done.

"Brady!" he shrilled. "I insist that you give me a full explanation. I go away by my doctor's orders for a vacation, leaving Mr. Smith to conduct the paper on certain clearly defined lines. By mere chance, while on my vacation, I saw a copy of the paper. It had been ruined."

"Ruined?" said John. "On the contrary. The circulation has been going up every week."

"Who is this person, Brady? With Mr. Philpotts I have been going carefully over the numbers which have been issued since my departure—"

"An intellectual treat," murmured John.

"—and in each there is a picture of this young man in a costume which I will not particularize—"

"There is hardly enough of it to particularize."

"—together with a page of disgusting autobiographical matter."

John held up his hand.

"I protest," he said. "We court criticism, but this is mere abuse. I appeal to these gentlemen to say whether this, for instance, is not bright and interesting."

He picked up the current number of Peaceful Moments , and turned to the Kid's page.

"This," he said, "describes a certain ten-round unpleasantness with one Mexican Joe. 'Joe comes up for the second round and he gives me a nasty look, but I thinks of my mother and swats him one in the lower ribs. He gives me another nasty look. "All right, Kid," he says; "now I'll knock you up into the gallery." And with that he cuts loose with a right swing, but I falls into the clinch, and then—'"

"Pah!" exclaimed Mr. Renshaw.

"Go on, boss," urged Mr. Jarvis approvingly. "It's to de good, dat stuff."

"There!" said John triumphantly. "You heard? Mr. Jarvis, one of the most firmly established critics east of Fifth Avenue stamps Kid Brady's reminiscences with the hall-mark of his approval."