Jarvis, who, since the readings from the Kid's
reminiscences had ceased, had lost interest in the discussion, and
was now entertaining the cats with a ball of paper tied to a
string.
"Fancied that Mr. White . . .?" repeated Mr. Wilberfloss. "I don't
follow you. Who is, if he isn't?"
Psmith removed his monocle, polished it thoughtfully, and put it
back in its place.
"I am," he said.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE KNOCK-OUT FOR MR. WARING
"You!" cried Mr. Wilberfloss.
"The same," said Psmith.
"You!" exclaimed Messrs. Waterman, Asher, and the Reverend Edwin
Philpotts.
"On the spot!" said Psmith.
Mr. Wilberfloss groped for a chair and sat down.
"Am I going mad?" he demanded feebly.
"Not so, Comrade Wilberfloss," said Psmith encouragingly. "All is
well. The cry goes round New York, 'Comrade Wilberfloss is to the
good. He does not gibber.'"
"Do I understand you to say that you own this paper?"
"I do."
"Since when?"
"Roughly speaking, about a month."
Among his audience (still excepting Mr. Jarvis, who was tickling
one of the cats and whistling a plaintive melody) there was a
tendency toward awkward silence. To start bally-ragging a seeming
nonentity and then to discover he is the proprietor of the paper to
which you wish to contribute is like kicking an apparently empty
hat and finding your rich uncle inside it.
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