“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
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
“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.”
“I falls fer de Kid every time,” assented Mr. Jarvis.
“Sure! You know a good thing when you see one. Why,” he went on warmly, “there is stuff in these reminiscences which would stir the blood of a jellyfish. Let me quote you another passage, to show that they are not only enthralling, but helpful as well. Let me see, where is it? Ah, I have it. ‘A bully good way of putting a guy out of business is this. You don’t want to use it in the ring, because rightly speaking it’s a foul, but you will find it mighty useful if any thick-neck comes up to you in the street and tries to start anything. It’s this way. While he’s setting himself for a punch, just place the tips of the fingers of your left hand on the right side of the chest. Then bring down the heel of your left hand. There isn’t a guy living that could stand up against that. The fingers give you a
