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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
103
“Oh,
hullo,
Tuppy,”
I
said,
“I
wanted
to
see
you.”
He
turned,
snifter
in
hand,
and
it
was
easy
to
see
that
his
privations
had
tried
him
sorely.
He
was
looking
like
a
wolf
on
the
steppes
of
Russia
which
has
seen
its
peasant
shin
up
a
high
tree.
“Yes?”
he
said,
rather
unpleasantly.
“Well,
here
I
am.”
“Well?”
“How
do
you
mean----well?”
“Make
your
report.”
“What
report?”
“Have
you
nothing
to
tell
me
about
Angela?”
“Only
that
she’s
a
blister.”
I
was
concerned.
“Hasn’t
she
come
clustering
round
you
yet?”
“She
has
not.”
“Very
odd.”
“Why
odd?”
“She
must
have
noted
your
lack
of
appetite.”
He
barked
raspingly,
as
if
he
were
having
trouble
with
the
tonsils
of
the
soul.
“Lack
of
appetite!
I’m
as
hollow
as
the
Grand
Canyon.”
“Courage,
Tuppy!
Think
of
Gandhi.”
“What
about
Gandhi?”
“He
hasn’t
had
a
square
meal
for
years.”
“Nor
have
I.
Or
I
could
swear
I
hadn’t.
Gandhi,
my
left
foot.”
I
saw
that
it
might
be
best
to
let
the
Gandhi
motif
slide.
I
went
back
to
where
we
had
started.
“She’s
probably
looking
for
you
now.”
“Who
is?
Angela?”
“Yes.
She
must
have
noticed
your
supreme
sacrifice.”
“I
don’t
suppose
she
noticed
it
at
all,
the
little
fathead.
I’ll
bet
it
didn’t
register
in
any
way
whatsoever.”
“Come,
Tuppy,”
I
urged,
“this
is
morbid.
Don’t
take
this
gloomy
view.
She
must
at
least
have
spotted
that
you
refused
those
nonnettes
de
poulet
Agnès
Sorel.
It
was
a
sensational
renunciation
and
stuck
out
like
a
sore
thumb.
And
the
cèpes
à
la
Rossini----”
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