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Updated: June 17, 2025
John glowered at him. Betty was pink, but composed. Pugsy climbed leisurely on to the roof, and surveyed the group. "Why, hello!" he said, as he saw Betty more closely. "Well, Pugsy," said Betty. "How are you?" John turned in surprise. "Do you know Pugsy?" Betty looked at him, puzzled. "Why, of course I do." "Sure," said Pugsy. "Miss Brown was stenographer on de poiper till she beat it."
Jarvis, touching the cat's neck. "Mine, mister." "Pugsy said it must be," said Billy Windsor. "We found two fellows setting a dog on to it, so we took it in for safety." Mr. Jarvis nodded approval. "There's a basket here, if you want it," said Billy. "Nope. Here, kit." Mr. Jarvis stooped, and, still whistling softly, lifted the cat.
To her, meditating, there entered Pugsy Maloney, the guardian of the gate of this shrine of Peace, a nonchalant youth of about fifteen, with a freckled, mask-like face, the expression of which never varied, bearing in his arms a cat. The cat was struggling violently, but he appeared quite unconscious of it. Its existence did not seem to occur to him. "Say!" said Pugsy. Betty was fond of cats.
Have you ever seen an untamed mustang of the prairie?" "Nope. But I've read about dem." "Well, run like one down to Wall Street with this cheque, and pay it in to my account at the International Bank." Pugsy disappeared. "Cheques," said Psmith, "have been known to be stopped. Who knows but what, on reflection, you might not have changed your mind?" "What guarantee have I," asked Mr.
Nothing could have been more convenient, for that very day happened to be Thursday. "I rubbered around," said Pugsy, "an' done de sleut' act, an' it's this way. Dere's a feller blows in every T'ursday 'bout six o'clock, an' den it's up to de folks to dig down inter deir jeans for de stuff, or out dey goes before supper. I got dat from my kid frien' what knows a kid what lives dere.
A strange quiet seemed to be brooding over the other camp. He could not believe that a single defeat had crushed the foe, but it was hard to think of any other explanation. It was Pugsy Maloney who, on the fourth morning, brought to the office the inner history of the truce. His version was brief and unadorned, as was the way with his narratives.
He was out when the party, led by Pugsy up dark stairs, arrived; and, on returning, seemed both surprised and alarmed to see visitors. Pugsy undertook to do the honours. Pugsy as interpreter was energetic but not wholly successful.
"Nope," he said curtly, fixing his eyes again on his book. A movement on the part of the visitor attracted his attention. The seedy man was making for the door of the inner room. Pugsy instantly ceased to be the student and became the man of action. He sprang from his seat and wriggled in between the man and the door. "Youse can't butt in dere," he said authoritatively. "Chase yerself."
"Ah, Comrade Maloney," said Smith. "Is that your contribution? What is the subject? 'Mustangs I have Met?" "A kid brought dis," said Pugsy. "Dere ain't no answer." Smith read the letter with raised eyebrows. "We shall have to get another stenographer," he said. "The gifted author of our Broster Street series has quit." "Oh!" said John, not interested.
Waring in, Comrade Maloney." He took a seat. "We are now, Comrade Wilberfloss," he said, "at a crisis in the affairs of this journal, but I fancy we shall win through." The door opened, and Pugsy announced Mr. Waring. The owner of the Pleasant Street Tenements was of what is usually called commanding presence. He was tall and broad, and more than a little stout.
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