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Updated: May 9, 2025
And you wouldn't like that, Comrade Wilberfloss, would you?" Mr. Wilberfloss, thus suddenly pulled into the conversation, again leaped in his seat. "What I propose to do," continued Psmith, without waiting for an answer, "is to touch you for the good round sum of five thousand and three dollars." Mr. Waring half rose. "Five thousand dollars!" "Five thousand and three dollars," said Psmith.
Wilberfloss himself; one or two other pages; a short story; answers to correspondents on domestic matters; and a "Moments of Mirth" page, conducted by an alleged humorist of the name of B. Henderson Asher, which is about the most painful production ever served up to a confiding public. The guiding spirit of Cosy Moments was Mr. Wilberfloss.
And Comrade Waterman will support me in my statement that a victory over Eddie Wood means that he gets a legitimate claim to meet Jimmy Garvin for the championship." "It is abominable," burst forth Mr. Wilberfloss. "It is disgraceful. I never heard of such a thing. The paper is ruined." "You keep reverting to that statement, Comrade Wilberfloss. Can nothing reassure you? The returns are excellent.
Both of Groome Street." The two Bowery boys rose awkwardly. The cats fell in an avalanche to the floor. Long Otto, in his haste, trod on the dog, which began barking, a process which it kept up almost without a pause during the rest of the interview. "Mr. Wilberfloss," said Psmith in an aside to Bat, "is widely known as a cat fancier in Brooklyn circles." "Honest?" said Mr. Jarvis. He tapped Mr.
Waterman, who had backed away and seemed nervous. "What is the trouble, Comrade Jarvis?" "Dat guy dere wit two left feet," said Bat querulously, "goes and treads on de kit. "I assure you it was a pure accident. The animal " Mr. Wilberfloss, eyeing Bat and the silent Otto with disgust, intervened. "Who are these persons, Mr. Smith?" he inquired. "Poisson yourself," rejoined Bat, justly incensed.
His locality is as hard to ascertain as that of a black cat in a coal-cellar on a moonless night. Shortly before I joined this journal, Mr. Wilberfloss, by his doctor's orders, started out on a holiday, leaving no address. No letters were to be forwarded. He was to enjoy complete rest. Where is he now? Who shall say?
Let us say, Comrade Windsor in the chair over there, Comrades Brady and Maloney on the table, and our old pal Wilberfloss sharing the floor with B. Henderson Asher, Bat Jarvis, and the cats. By the way, I think it would be a graceful act if you were to write to Comrade Jarvis from time to time telling him how your Angoras are getting on. He regards you as the World's Most Prominent Citizen.
Wilberfloss?" The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they all wanted to know: Who was W. Windsor? Where was Mr. Wilberfloss? "I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts, sir," said a cadaverous- looking man with pale blue eyes and a melancholy face. "I have contributed 'Moments of Meditation' to this journal for a very considerable period of time."
There isn't a guy living that could stand up against that. The fingers give you a leverage to beat the band. The guy doubles up, and you upper-cut him with your right, and out he goes. Now, I bet you never knew that before, Comrade Philpotts. Try it on your parishioners." "Cosy Moments," said Mr. Wilberfloss irately, "is no medium for exploiting low prize-fighters." "Low prize-fighters!
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a painful case. The circumstances, as you will readily admit when you have heard all, are peculiar. You have asked me where Mr. Wilberfloss is. I do not know." "You don't know!" exclaimed Mr. Waterman. "I don't know. You don't know. They," said Psmith, indicating the rest with a wave of the hand, "don't know. Nobody knows.
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