How Kid Brady Joined the Press

BY P. G. WODEHOUSE

HE lane was not wide and the Kid's automobile, which had broken down after the manner of automobiles, blocked a generous two-thirds of it. The greater part of the Kid was out of sight, underneath the machine. The hottest sun that had shone on the State of New York that summer was slowly roasting a pair of brown boots and the lower portion of two flannel-clad legs which protruded from beneath the wheels. The Kid hated this phase of automobilism, but he went through it conscientiously.

The sound of horses' hoofs mingled with the amateur engineer's murmured imprecations. They slowed down to a walk as they neared the derelict, and finally halted.

"Is there any one in charge of that smoke-wagon?" inquired a voice politely. "Saved!" he added, "I see boots. Shop!"

The Kid began to wriggle out from his place of retirement.

"If you can spare me a moment of your valuable time," continued the horseman, "I wish you would ease off that bubble a point or two to the left. At present it's taking up most of the road, and this intelligent animal refuses to pass."

The Kid stood up and inhaled the fresh air.

"Why it's the Kid!l I had a sort of idea I'd seen that bubble before. Just the very man I wanted to meet."

He jumped down from his horse, and approached the Kid with outstretched hand.

"I've been looking for you everywhere. They told me you were in the village. I want a soul-to-soul talk with you when you're through with your tinkering. By the way, you may not remember me. Garth. Tom Garth. I interviewed you for the Manhattan Daily when you came to New York after winning the championship. You were in bed. Remember? You got outside your breakfast, while I sat on the chest of drawers and asked you questions. It would have made a good subject for a historical painting. Now do you remember? Don't mind me. We can talk when you've finished. I don't understand bubbles, or I'd help you. As it is, the sun is hot. I have a cigar-case somewhere, and if you look closely you'll see me do my popular imitation of a hard-worked young journalist taking a much-needed rest."

"Not be long," responded the Kid, crawling into retreat once more, while Mr. Garth, whistling the "Mosquito's Parade" under his breath, sat down by the roadside and felt for his cigars.

Ten minutes elapsed before the Kid, damp and red as to the face, emerged, wiping his hands.

"Done it," he said complacently.

"Then sit down and have one of these. It's much too hot for the strenuous life. However— Well, Kid, it brings back my vanished youth meeting you like this. Been assaulting the police lately? What's up now? I wish you wouldn't spring about like that. It's too hot."

The Kid continued to gaze at his loquacious companion, in consternation. The lurid episode of Detective Dunn and the female jewel-robber, in whose cause he had displayed so much mistaken chivalry, had begun to fade from his mind, but this sudden, apparently irrelevant, question brought it surging back in all its pristine freshness. How much did the man know?

Mr. Tom Garth stretched himself lazily on the grass and blew a scientific smoke-ring. He was a long, thin young man, with a dark, clever face, and a humorous mouth. He appeared wholly unconcerned at the disturbance he had caused. "What—what —how? Who's been telling you?" gasped the Kid.

"It's all right," replied Garth. "Sit down. It was a shame to spring it on you like that. My passion for the dramatic's quite a disease. You needn't worry. We're all friends here. Nobody but myself knows a word about it. Your cigar's out!"

The Kid subsided to the grass again.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"I recognized you on the platform that day. It was a decent disguise, all the same. I recognized you by your build, and the way you put that shot in at the jaw. Poor old Dunn! Not much need to count ten there. He was out for twenty minutes, and even then he wasn't what you'd call chirpy. I've been wanting to see you ever since, to as you what the deuce you were at. You're a law-abiding person, I know. Why this sudden outburst of devilry?"

It was with a certain hesitation and confusion that the Kid explained the machinations of the insidious Miss Grant. He had been badly buncoed, and there was not much pleasure to be derived from saying so.

Garth chuckled incessantly throughout the tale. "Smart girl, that. Deserved to get away. I'm glad she did. Now I'll tell you where I come in. Bear in mind, from this point, a certain proverb you may have heard—one good turn deserves another. I shall come back to it shortly. Well, this was how it was. I know Dunn. He told me he was expecting to make an important arrest at the station. I hovered around to scoop it for my paper. But mark the sequel: I didn't get the scoop I wanted, but I got another twice as good. Have you ever seen an editor smile? You should have seen Taylor's face split in half when I cake-walked into the office with my story. As you know, I put them off the scent by describing you as a burly man. Dunn would have it that his assailant was a fellow about your own build, Kid, but I assured him that he was wrong, and that the jolting he had got had sent his memory off the rails. So that made it all right for you. And the moral of that, as I said before, is, that one good turn deserves another."

"Anything I can do—" began the Kid fervently.

"Good. I knew you had a noble heart, Kid.

"As one Wordsworth observed. I don't suppose you know him. He held the championship belt for poetry at one time. But he wasn't referring to you. When it comes to gratitude, you're there with the goods. And now I'll tell you what you can do to help me. It's a long story, and I think I'll light another weed before I begin."

"I'm listening," said the Kid encouragingly.

Garth lit his cigar, threw the match at the horse, which was still making a hearty meal, and resumed:

"They have an unholy custom in newspaper offices of New York," he said, "of dispensing, during the hot weather, with the services of a certain number of their employees. Or, if you want that sentence translated, they bounce about one in every five of the reporters on the papers. There is no animus about it. They hint that you are a splendid fellow, and what the paper will do without you they don't know, but, all the same, would you mind taking a holiday? Thanks, very much. When the summer's over, and people begin to come back to town they take you on again. But in the meanwhile you are at a loose end. That's my case. The Manhattan Daily don't want me till the cold weather."

"It's a burnin' shame!" broke out the sympathetic pugilist.

"Dry the starting tear," said Garth. "I don't mind, as far as I'm concerned. In fact, I'm very glad. Being thrifty by nature and habit, I have plenty of money to keep me going till I resume my job. And the holiday is welcome for many reasons, principally because it will give me time to carry out a certain scheme. Whatever you do, try and keep awake now, for this is where you come in."

The Kid expressed himself all attention.

"I shall now bore you with a little biography. It's painful, but necessary. I was born of poor but honest parents, who sent me to school at an early age, where I met a certain Lord Worfield!"

"A lord!" echoed the interested Kid.

"A lord," said Garth. "We were friends at school, and when we went to Oxford we continued friends. In fact, we are still friends. I came out to the States; he stayed at home. Well, Worfield arrived in New York just before I left the paper. He was rolling in money, and showed a pleasant anxiety to get rid of it. After he had seen all the theaters and got tired of all the restaurants, he found—with horror—that he still possessed more than would be good for two men. It was then that he was struck with a bright idea. I hope you're listening. Have another cigar. This is his idea: A thoughtful study of our New York papers had left him with the impression that there was no law of libel in the land; or, if there was, that you couldn't say anything about a person bad enough to make a jury give damages. Having got this notion firmly into his head, he came to me. 'Tom,' he said—just like that—why shouldn't we start a paper that's not only libellous in spots, but all through? The greater the truth the greater the libel. Let's start a weekly that tells the unvarnished truth about all these New York beauties—in Wall Street, and so on. It will sell like hot cakes. And it will be the best rag since Oxford. You shall be editor, and I'll finance the thing.' 'Very well,' I said, 'if you're dying to burn money. But,' I added, we shall want somebody to protect us from infuriated callers. Somebody to sit at the door and throw them down-stairs as they arrive. And,' I said,' I know the very man—Kid Brady.' So there you are, Kid. Will you come in? Handsome pay, and pleasant work. I'll get you fit for your next fight. Join the staff of Candor as fighting-editor, and combine business with pleasure."

"How?" said the Kid. "I'm not next to the game yet."

"It's perfectly simple. We want you to be around during office hours to see that strong and angry gentlemen don't come worrying me. I shan't have time to attend to them myself. You will sit in your little rabbit-hutch at the top of the stairs, and when any one calls and asks to see the editor, you will tell him that the editor is not in. If he tries to get past you, it will be up to you to see that he gets the rapid bounce. Don't be violent with them. Simply assist them gently in the direction of the street."

There was a silence while the idea filtered through into the Kid's brain. Then he rose to a point of order.

"What's going to be doing when they recognize me?" he asked. "I'd like to help you, Mr. Garth, but I daren't risk getting into trouble with the cops. You see, a fighting-man's got to be more careful than most. He don't get. let off too easy when he comes into court for hitting people."

"That's all right, my dear Kid," said Garth with much cheerfulness, "don't worry yourself. In the first place, you musn't [sic] hit 'em. I explained that. We don't want New York to be full of Trust Magnates with black eyes. Then a man with your talent for disguise need never be recognized. You shall dress for the part. Doesn't that stir your young blood? We'll get you up as an elderly and respectable partner with a neat gray mustache. Any more objections? He is silent. Ergo, he is convinced. Excellent. All the arrangements are now complete. We shall leave for New York to-night. If you like you can run me down in your bubble. The first number of Candor has been ready this many a day. Now that the staff is complete, we can begin. Approach me, Bucephalus, if you have finished your meal. Whoa! And now, Kid," he added from the saddle, "get into the bubble, and we'll go back to the hotel and drink success to the paper."

The Kid had been in some queer situations in the course of his short life, but he was inclined to give the palm to the one in which he now found himself. Every afternoon, Wednesdays and Saturdays excepted, he repaired to his post at the top of the first flight of stairs in the building in which Candor rented its offices. Here he sat entrenched behind a wooden barrier, fingering his gray mustache uneasily—the fear that it would come off never left him—and interviewing gentlemen who objected to hearing the truth about themselves. These were of all sorts. On the second day after the appearance of the first number, a tall, somber man in a long fawn-colored dust-coat called. The Kid recognized him from photographs as a celebrated romantic actor.

I wish to see your editor," said the great man with ominous calm.

"Editor not in," replied the Kid glibly.

"You are sure that he is not in?"

"Sure."

"The better for him," retorted the other darkly. "Can you remember a message, my man?"

"Sure."

"Then give your editor, when he arrives. the compliments of Mr. Bodkin, Mr. Aubrey Bodkin of the National Theater, and tell him that Mr. Bodkin does not lightly forget."

They were not all so pacific. Arriving one afternoon a little late, the editor of Candor had to stand aside on the stairs to allow a procession of two to pass him. The procession was headed by a stout, red-faced gentleman in business suit who moved reluctantly. The rear was brought up by the Kid. He was grasping the visitor by the elbows, and appeared to be supplying the motive force. "I knew that Wall Street people would be a success," said Garth to himself with a grin as he watched them disappear.

"Candor created a considerable sensation from its very first number. Theoretically, New York is empty during the summer; but in practice there are still a few inhabitants. These read the new weekly almost to a man. Its victims bought it from curiosity and against their better judgment. Their friends read it eagerly, amused and interested to find that the truth about the victims had at last become known.

The progress of the paper was like that of a forest fire. Contemporaries in Chicago and St. Louis quoted tit-bits from it in their Sunday editions. Astute firms sent in orders for advertisements. Founded to enable Lord Worfield to dispose of his surplus cash with the maximum of amusement to himself, it rapidly began to assume the proportions of a great investment. The expenses were small, the profits large. On the appearance of the eighth number, an attempt was made, by unknown persons, in the absence of the staff, to wreck the office. Garth edited number nine from behind a door with three panels splintered. Number eleven saw his salary doubled, also the Kid's. The Kid had now got well into the swing of his duties, and was enjoying journalism immensely.

One afternoon Garth was writing a trenchant leader, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in!" he cried. "Hullo, Kid, what's the matter?"

"There's somebody wants to see you," said the gray-mustached one.

"Tell him I'm not in." "It's a lady," said the Kid with a blushful grin.

"Garth clicked with his tongue doubtfully. "Well," he said at last, "show her in. I didn't bargain for this. I wonder what she wants. We haven't had a word about any woman in the paper. There is a line, Kid, and we draw it. Show her in, then. But keep an eye on the stairs and see that no one else gets through.

The Kid reappeared a moment later, ushering in the visitor.

Garth placed a chair for her. She was the type of an American girl who seems to radiate brightness.

"Are you the editor of Candor?" she inquired.

"I am," said Garth. "Is there anything—?"

"Yes," she replied decidedly, "there is. I want you to read this. I'm Julie Weyder, and Cornelius Weyder is my father."

"I don't need to read the article," said Garth, "I think I know the one you mean. It is called 'What we think of Mr. Cornelius Weyder,' is it not?"

"'Number one'. That's it."

"Exactly. 'Number one'. H'm. I don't mind admitting to you. Miss Weyder, that this slightly complicates matters. When I—when my contributor wrote that article, he did not take into account the fact that even Copper Kings have those who love them. The consequence was that—er—that, in fact, he rather let himself go."

"He did," responded the lady, grimly.

He looked compassionately at her.

"I really do not see what I can do."

Miss Weyder stamped a minute foot upon the floor.

"Do! You don't see what you can do? Why, print a piece next week saying the thing isn't true."

"I cannot do that, Miss Weyder. I am afraid it is quite true."

"Well, they ought not to have said it. And I don't believe it's true. And, anyhow, you can deny it in the paper."

"I am afraid that would scarcely be possible, Miss Weyder. You forget my position as regards the paper. I am a paid servant. If I do not perform my work as my proprietor wishes, I am not doing my duty. My proprietor wishes Candor to be run on certain dearly defined lines, and I must do it, however greatly against my will."

"But you can stop them from printing any more of it. This is number one. How many more are there?"

"It is a series of six," replied Garth.

"Six! But you must stop them."

I am afraid it is impossible. Unless," he added to himself, "Worfield will stop the infernal things."

"Then you're very, very cruel," said Miss Weyder, her eyes filling with tears.

There was an awkward pause, during which Tom Garth felt more uncomfortable than he remembered ever to have felt before; and then a merciful interruption relieved the tension. The door-handle turned, and Lord Worfield entered.

"All three spoke at once.

"Hullo, Tom!" said Lord Worfield.

"Hullo, Jimmy!" said Garth, with fervent gratitude.

"Jimmy!" said Miss Weyder, springing to her feet.

"Why, Julie," said Lord Worfield, "I didn't see you. What are you doing here? I was just coming to tell Tom about you. Have you introduced yourselves? This is Tom Garth, Julie. We were at school and Oxford together. Tom, this is Miss Julie Weyder, who has promised to be my wife. We have been engaged since yesterday evening. I was coming to tell you."

"'Gratulate you, old man," murmured Tom.

"Jimmy, can't you do anything? Who is it who owns this paper? Because they have been printing things about father, and it's to be a series of six, and Mr. Garth says he has no power to stop it, unless he gets his proprietor's leave. Do you know the proprietor? Can't you speak to him? Look!" She held out a copy of Candor. Lord Worfield ran his eye through the article.

"Bitter," was his comment.

"Smith's stuff is always that," said Garth eyeing him steadily, "he thinks the proprietor likes it." "So he does," said Lord Worfield hastily, "so he does, old chap. Only this it different. You see—I mean—that is to say— What I mean to say is, Mr. Weyder being a friend of mine— No, that's not it. I don't know what I'm saying. I didn't know anythting about this series. Oh, lord!"

He edged close to Tom.

"For heaven's sake, old chap," he entreated in a hot whisper, "don't give me away."

"Miss Weyder," said Tom, courteously, "with your permission, I will change my mind. I will brave my proprietor's wrath and suppress the remaining five articles on my own responsibility."

The sun broke through the clouds. Miss Weyder dimpled charmingly, Lord Worfield's long face cleared, and he heaved a sigh of relief, which he instantly changed into a cough.

"Then, that's all right" he began.

"What is that noise?" inquired Julie.

"From the direction of the stairs came the well-known sound of the Kid informing a caller that the editor was not in. Lord Worfield, who was nearest the door, looked out. Then he shut the door with what seemed unnecessary rapidity and decision. His face was pale. From the stairs the sound of shuffling feet made itself heard.

"What is it? Do let me look," said Julie.

"No, no, it's nothing, said Lord Worfield, with a ghastly grin. "It's only that ass of a porter. He often does a sort of dance to keep himself warm."

Miss Weyder stared.

"To keep himself warm! In a New York summer! I must look. The man must be mad."

"That's just what he is. Just what he is. A little eccentric, that is to say. Tom only engaged him out of charity, because he's old and has a widow and six small children. I mean a wife. That's all."

The shuffling feet died away. Silence reigned on the stairs.

"Well," said Julie, "I must be going. No, you are not to see me home, Jimmy. Good-by, Mr. Garth, and thank you so much. I hope your proprietor will not be very angry with you."

"I don't think he will, Miss Weyder," said Tom. "Good-by."

The door dosed behind her.

"My lord!" said Worfield, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Well, Jimmy," said Tom Garth, "so you're hooked at last. No more Candor for you after this, I suppose? Candor generally ceases with marriage."

Lord Worfield breathed heavily.

"The narrowest squeak I ever had," he said, "or want to have. Yes, the paper's dead. Do you know who that was that the Kid was showing out just now? Mr. Weyder. Julie's father. My lord, what a shave! If she'd seen—! Look here, Tom, I'm awfully sorry to have to put a stopper on the show just when it's beginning to go well, and after all the trouble you've taken; but I simply daren't. If it came out.You don't know old Weyder. It wouldn't take much to make him withdraw his consent."

"He isn't impressed by the title?"

"Not a bit. And he an American father!"

"I don't know what the world's coming to," said Tom. "A man with his dangerous ideas ought not to be at large. Exit Candor, then. In life it was beautiful, and in death—R. I. P."

"I'm sorry, Tom. Are you—I mean, does this make it at all awkward for you?"

"Don't name it, old man. That's all right. I shall enjoy a holiday, and the Daily will take me on again when the cold weather begins. Slay the rag with an easy conscience. You'll be ruining nobody."

A Trust Magnate met a Wheat King in Wall Street a week later.

"It's dead," said the magnate.

"What's dead?"

"That filthy rag, Candor."

"Yes, so I see. These papers never last. Good at first, but fall off."

"Mere flash in the pan," said the magnate. Do we lunch?"

"Kid," said Tom Garth, as they sat together in the private room in the latter's saloon, "there never was a good thing on this earth which a woman couldn't smash up in one round, if she started in on it.

"That's poetry, Kid, one Thomas Otway wrote it."

"He knew his business," said the light-weight champion of the United States.