“They don’t,” said Smith reassuringly. “I’ve looked into that. Have no pity for them. They are amateurs— degraded creatures of substance who take the cocktails out of the mouths of deserving professionals. B. Henderson Asher, for instance, is largely interested in gents’ haberdashery. And so with the others. We touch their pride, perhaps, but not their purses.”
Betty’s soft heart was distinctly relieved by the information.
“I see,” she said. “But suppose they do call, what will you do? It will be very unpleasant.”
Smith pondered.
“True,” he said. “True. I think you are right there. My nervous system is so delicately attuned that anything in the shape of a brawl would reduce it to a frazzle. I think that, for this occasion only, we will promote Comrade Maloney to the post of editor. He is a stern, hard, rugged man who does not care how unpopular he is. Yes, I think that would be best.”
He signed the letters with a firm hand, “per pro P. Maloney, editor.”
Then he lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair.
“An excellent morning’s work,” he said. “Already I begin to feel the dawnings of a new self-respect.”
Betty, thinking the thing over, a little dazed by the rapidity of Smith’s method of action, had found a fresh flaw in the scheme.
“If you send Mr. Asher and the others away, how are you going to bring the paper out at all? You can’t write it all yourself.”
Smith looked at her with benevolent admiration.
“She thinks of everything,” he murmured. “That busy brain is never still. No, Comrade Brown, I do not propose to write the whole paper myself. I do not shirk work when it gets me in a corner and I can’t side-step, but there are limits. I propose to apply to a few of my late companions of Park Row, bright boys who will be delighted to come across with red-hot stuff for a moderate fee.”
“And the proprietor of the paper? Won’t he make any objection?”
Smith shook his head with a touch of reproof.
“You seem determined to try to look on the dark side. Do you insinuate that we are not acting in the proprietor’s best interests? When he gets his check for the receipts, after I have handled the paper awhile, he will go singing about the streets. His beaming smile will be a byword. Visitors will be shown it as one of the sights. His only doubt will be whether to send his money to the bank or keep it in tubs and roll in it. And anyway,” he added, “he’s in Europe somewhere, and never sees the paper, sensible man.”
He scratched a speck of dust off his coat-sleeve with his finger nail.
“This is a big thing,” he resumed. “Wait till you see the first number of the new series. My idea is that
CHAPTER XV
THE HONEYED WORD
The offices of Peaceful Moments were in a large building in a street off Madison Avenue. They consisted of a sort of outer lair, where Pugsy Maloney spent his time reading tales of life on the prairies and heading off undesirable visitors; a small room, into which desirable but premature visitors were loosed, to wait their turn for admission into the Presence; and a larger room beyond, which was the editorial sanctum.
Smith, returning from luncheon on the day following his announcement of the great change, found both Betty and Pugsy waiting in the outer lair, evidently with news of import.
“Mr. Smith,” began Betty.
“Dey’re in dere,” said Master Maloney with his customary terseness.
“Who, exactly?” asked Smith.
“De whole bunch of dem.”
Smith inspected Pugsy through his eyeglass. “Can you give me any particulars?” he asked patiently. “You are well-meaning, but vague, Comrade Maloney. Who are in there?”
“About ‘steen of dem!” said Pugsy.
“Mr. Asher,” said Betty, “and Mr. Philpotts, and all the rest of them.” She struggled for a moment, but, unable to resist the temptation, added, “I told you so.”
A faint smile appeared upon Smith’s face.
“Dey just butted in,” said Master Maloney, resuming his narrative. “I was sittin’ here, readin’ me book, when de foist of de guys blows in. ‘Boy,’ says he, ‘is de editor in?’ ‘Nope,’ I says. ‘I’ll go in and wait,’ says he. ‘Nuttin’ doin’,’ says I. ‘Nix on de goin’-in act.’ I might as well have saved me breat! In he butts. In about t’ree minutes along comes another gazebo. ‘Boy,’ says he, ‘is de editor in?’ ‘Nope,’ I says. ‘I’ll wait,’ says he, lightin’ out for de door, and in he butts. Wit’ dat I sees de proposition’s too fierce for muh. I can’t keep dese big husky guys out if dey bucks center like dat. So when de rest of de bunch comes along, I don’t try to give dem de trun down. I says, ‘Well, gent,’ I says, ‘it’s up to youse. De editor ain’t in, but, if you feels lonesome, push t’roo. Dere’s plenty dere to keep youse company. I can’t be boddered!’”
