"I think, Comrade Wilberfloss," he said, "we are talking at cross-purposes. You keep harping on Comrade White and his views and tastes. One would almost imagine that you fancied that Comrade White was the proprietor of this paper." Mr. Wilberfloss stared. B. Henderson Asher stared. Every one stared, except Mr. 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. Mr. Wilberfloss in particular was disturbed. Editorships of the kind which he aspired to are not easy to get. If he were to be removed from _Cosy Moments_ he would find it hard to place himself anywhere else. Editors, like manuscripts, are rejected from want of space.