Psmith, Journalist by P. G. (Pelham Grenville) Wodehouse
page 50 of 257 (19%)
page 50 of 257 (19%)
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"Where's this fellow Windsor? W. Windsor. That's the man we want to see. I've been working for this paper without a break, except when I had the mumps, for four years, and I've reason to know that my page was as widely read and appreciated as any in New York. And now up comes this Windsor fellow, if you please, and tells me in so many words the paper's got no use for me." "These are life's tragedies," murmured Psmith. "What's he mean by it? That's what I want to know. And that's what these gentlemen want to know--See here--" "I am addressing--?" said Psmith. "Asher's my name. B. Henderson Asher. I write 'Moments of Mirth.'" A look almost of excitement came into Psmith's face, such a look as a visitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some great national monument. That he should be privileged to look upon the author of "Moments of Mirth" in the flesh, face to face, was almost too much. "Comrade Asher," he said reverently, "may I shake your hand?" The other extended his hand with some suspicion. "Your 'Moments of Mirth,'" said Psmith, shaking it, "have frequently reconciled me to the toothache." |
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