From: kannan@lamar.ColoState.EDU (Kannan Subramanian)
Newsgroups: alt.fan.wodehouse
Subject: Re: Jeeves Canon
Date: 26 Jan 93 21:24:38 GMT
Organization: Colorado State University


In article <C1Gr6r.GJ4@news.iastate.edu>,
sachin@iastate.edu (Sachin S Sapatnekar) writes:

|> >A less known Psmith novel is "Psmith Journalist" in which Psmith takes over    
|> >(ably aided by Mike Jackson) the running of a newspaper in New York City (while
|> >its editor is away on vacation in Europe).
|> 
|> It's been a long time since I read this one, so I may be mistaken...
|> but are you sure that Mike Jackson appears in this book? It's set
|> in New York, isn't it?

Yes, Mike Jackson does figure in the book (and here comes the despicable
"argument by authority" with profuse apologies, to wit, "You better take my
word for it. I own the book!") Mike is a member of some visiting cricket team &
takes off periodically on some cricketing jaunts, even as Psmith tracks the    
dangerous gangs of New York, a monocle in one eye and a detective gleam in 
the other. 
 
|> If you have access to this book, could you post the part where
|> Psmith lands up at Paddington(?) to meet Freddie, with a pink
|> chrysanthemum in his lapel?

[ Here's the reply Freddie, son of Lord Emsworth, sends Psmith in response to 
his newspaper ad urging readers to "Leave it to Psmith." ] 

"If R. Psmith will meet the writer in the lobby of the Piccadily Palace Hotel
at twelve sharp, Friday, July 1, business may result if business meant and
terms are reasonable. R. Psmith will wear a pink chrysanthemum in his
buttonhole, and will say to the writer, 'There will be rain in Northumberland
tomorrow,' to which the writer will reply, 'Good for the crops.' Kindly be
punctual."

[ Psmith, having invested in chrysanthemum, one number(s), pink, finds it
both repellant and distressing, but arrives at the appointed hour wearing the
shrub. ]

(continue extract)

Arrived at the hotel and standing in the lobby, he perceived the existence of
further complications. The lobby was in its usual state of congestion it being
a recognized meeting-place for those who did not find it convenient to go as
far east as that traditional rendezvous of Londoners, the spot under the clock
at Charing Cross Station; and 'the writer', while giving instructions as to how
Psmith should ornament his exterior had carelessly omitted to mention how he
himself was to be recognized. A rollicking slap-dash conspirator, was Psmith's
opinion. 

It seemed best to take up a position as nearly as possible in the centre of the
lobby and stand there until 'the writer', lured by the chrysanthemum, should
come forward and start something. This he accordingly did, but when at the end
of ten minutes nothing had happened beyond a series of collisions with perhaps
a dozen hurrying visitors to the hotel, he decided on a more active course. A
young man of sporting appearance had been standing beside him for the last five
minutes, and ever and anon this young man had glanced with some impatience at
his watch. 

"There will be rain," said Psmith, "in Northumberland tomorrow."

The young man looked at him, not without interest, certainly, but without that
gleam of intelligence in his eye which Psmith had hoped to see. 

"What?" he replied. 

"There will be rain in Northumberland tomorrow."

"Thanks, Zadkiel," said the young man. "Deuced gratifying, I'm sure. I suppose
you couldn't predict the winner of the Goodwood Cup as well?"

He then withdrew rapidly to intercept a young woman in a large hat who had just
come through the swing doors. Psmith was forced to the conclusion that this was
not his man. He was sorry on the whole, for he had seemed a pleasant fellow. 

[ Two and half pages and several mishits later, 'the writer' and Psmith
connect. Sorry it's too long to type, though the material is hilarious. ]

"I asked you to wear a pink chrysanthemum. So I could recognize you, you know."

"I _am_ wearing a pink chrysanthemum. I should have imagined that was a fact
that the most casual could hardly have overlooked."

"That thing?" The other gazed disparagingly at the floral decoration. "I
thought it was some kind of cabbage. I meant one of those little
what-d'you-may-call-its that people do wear in their button holes."

"Carnation, possibly? "

"Carnation! That's right."

Psmith removed the chrysanthemum and dropped it behind his chair. He looked at
his companion reproachfully. 

"If you had studied botany at school, comrade," he said, "much misery might
have been averted. I cannot begin to tell you the spiritual agony I suffered,
trailing through the metropolis behind that shrub."

[ end extract ]

Gotta go. 

-kannan

"Across the pale parabola of Joy,
 The sibilant, scented silence shimmered where we sat..."
Newsgroups: alt.fan.wodehouse