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And now, as to the problem of dispensing with Comrade Maloney's services?" "Sure," said Billy. "Beat it, Pugsy, my lad." Pugsy looked up, indignant. "Beat it?" he queried. "While your shoe leather's good," said Billy. "This is no place for a minister's son. There may be a rough house in here any minute, and you would be in the way." "I want to stop and pipe de fun," objected Master Maloney.
They consisted of a sort of outer lair, where Pugsy Maloney spent his time reading tales of life in the prairies and heading off undesirable visitors; a small room, which would have belonged to the stenographer if Cosy Moments had possessed one; and a larger room beyond, which was the editorial sanctum. As Psmith passed through the front door, Pugsy Maloney rose. "Say!" said Master Maloney.
Gripping the struggling rent collector round the waist, and ignoring his frantic kicks as mere errors in taste, he lifted him to the trap-door, whence the head, shoulders and arms of Billy Windsor protruded into the room. Billy collected the collector, and then Psmith turned to Pugsy. "Comrade Maloney." "Huh?" "Have I your ear?" "Huh?"
I don't know what we should have done without it." "Aw, Chee!" said Mr. Jarvis. "Then good-by for the present." "Good-by, boss. Good-by, loidy." Long Otto pulled his forelock, and, accompanied by the cats and the dog, they left the room. When Mr. Renshaw and the others had followed them, John rang the bell for Pugsy. "Ask Mr. Scobell to step in," he said. The man of many enterprises entered.
"Guess I know where dat kitty belongs. Dey all has dose collars. I guess she's one of Bat Jarvis's kitties. He's got twenty-t'ree of dem, and dey all has dose collars." "Bat Jarvis?" "Sure." "Who is he?" Pugsy looked at her incredulously. "Say! Ain't youse never heard of Bat Jarvis? He's he's Bat Jarvis." "Do you know him?" "Sure, I knows him." "Does he live near here?"
His alliance with Pugsy Maloney had begun on the occasion when he had rescued that youth from the clutches of a large negro, who, probably from the soundest of motives, was endeavouring to slay him. Billy had not inquired into the rights and wrongs of the matter: he had merely sailed in and rescued the office-boy.
The duties of Master Pugsy Maloney at the offices of Cosy Moments were not heavy; and he was accustomed to occupy his large store of leisure by reading narratives dealing with life in the prairies, which he acquired at a neighbouring shop at cut rates in consideration of their being shop-soiled. It was while he was engrossed in one of these, on the morning following the visit of Mr.
He did not know how nearly interested were his employers in any matter touching that gang which is known as the Three Points. Pugsy said: "Dere's been fuss'n going on down where I live. Dat's right." He then retired to his outer fastness, yielding further details jerkily and with the distrait air of one whose mind is elsewhere.
They consisted of a sort of outer lair, where Pugsy Maloney spent his time reading tales of life on the prairies and heading off undesirable visitors; a small room, into which desirable but premature visitors were loosed, to wait their turn for admission into the Presence; and a larger room beyond, which was the editorial sanctum.
The Kid, unknown to that gentleman himself, was Pugsy's ideal. He came from the Plains, and had, indeed, once actually been a cowboy; he was a coming champion; and he could smoke big black cigars. There was no trace of his official well-what-is-it-now? air about Pugsy as he laid down his book and prepared to converse. "Say, Mr. Smith around anywhere, Pugsy?" asked the Kid. "Naw, Mr. Brady.
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