15a The Prince and Betty

A policeman appeared at the door.

“Say, pal,” he remarked to John, “you’ll have to be fading away soon, I guess. Give you three minutes more. Say it quick.”

He retired. Smith looked at John.

“You won’t quit?” he said.

“No.”

Smith smiled.

“You’re an all-wool sport, John,” he said. “I don’t suppose you know how to spell quit. Well, then, if you are determined to stand by the ship like Comrade Casabianca, I’ll tell you an idea that came to me in the watches of the night. If ever you want to get ideas, John, you spend a night in one of these cells. They flock to you. I suppose I did more profound thinking last night than I’ve ever done in my life. Well, here’s the idea. Act on it or not, as you please. I was thinking over the whole business from soup to nuts, and it struck me that the queerest part of it all is that whoever owns these Broster Street tenements should care a Canadian dime whether we find out who he is or not.”

“Well, there’s the publicity,” began John.

“Tush!” said Smith. “And possibly bah! Do you suppose that the sort of man who runs Broster Street is likely to care a darn about publicity? What does it matter to him if the papers soak it to him for about two days? He knows they’ll drop him and go on to something else on the third, and he knows he’s broken no law. No, there’s something more in this business than that. Don’t think that this bright boy wants to hush us up simply because he is a sensitive plant who can’t bear to think that people should be cross with him. He has got some private reason for wanting to lie low.”

“Well, but what difference—?”

“Comrade, I’ll tell you. It makes this difference: that the rents are almost certainly collected by some confidential person belonging to his own crowd, not by an ordinary collector. In other words, the collector knows the name of the man he’s collecting for. But for this little misfortune of mine, I was going to suggest that we waylay that collector, administer the Third Degree, and ask him who his boss is.”

John uttered an exclamation.

“You’re right! I’ll do it.”

“You think you can? Alone?”

“Sure! Don’t you worry. I’ll—”

The door opened and the policeman reappeared.

“Time’s up. Slide, sonny.”

John said good-by to Smith, and went out. He had a last glimpse of his late editor, a sad smile on his face, telling the policeman what was apparently a humorous story. Complete good will seemed to exist between them. John consoled himself as he went away with the reflection that Smith’s was a temperament that would probably find a bright side even to a thirty-days’ visit to Blackwell’s Island.

He walked thoughtfully back to the office. There was something lonely, and yet wonderfully exhilarating, in the realization that he was now alone and in sole charge of the campaign. It braced him. For the first time in several weeks he felt positively light-hearted.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CAMPAIGN QUICKENS

Mr. Jarvis was as good as his word. Early in the afternoon he made his appearance at the office of Peaceful Moments, his forelock more than usually well oiled in honor of the occasion, and his right coat-pocket bulging in a manner that betrayed to the initiated eye the presence of his trusty “canister.” With him, in addition, he brought a long, thin young man who wore under his brown tweed coat a blue-and-red striped sweater. Whether he brought him as an ally in case of need or merely as a kindred soul with whom he might commune during his vigil, did not appear.

Pugsy, startled out of his wonted calm by the arrival of this distinguished company, gazed after the pair, as they passed into the inner office, with protruding eyes.

John greeted the allies warmly, and explained Smith’s absence. Mr. Jarvis listened to the story with interest, and introduced his colleague.

“T’ought I’d let him chase along. Long Otto’s his monaker.”

“Sure!” said John. “The more the merrier. Take a seat. You’ll find cigars over there. You won’t mind my not talking for the moment? There’s a wad of work to clear up.”

This was an overstatement. He was comparatively free of work, press day having only just gone by; but he was keenly anxious to avoid conversation on the subject of cats, of his ignorance of which Mr. Jarvis’s appearance had suddenly reminded him. He took up an old proof sheet and began to glance through it, frowning thoughtfully.

Mr. Jarvis regarded the paraphernalia of literature on the table with interest. So did Long Otto, who, however, being a man of silent habit, made no comment. Throughout the seance and the events which followed it he confined himself to an occasional grunt. He seemed to lack other modes of expression.

“Is dis where youse writes up pieces fer de poiper?” enquired Mr. Jarvis.

“This is the spot,” said John. “On busy mornings you could hear our brains buzzing in Madison Square Garden. Oh, one moment.”

He rose and went into the outer office.

“Pugsy,” he said, “do you know Broster Street?”

“Sure.”