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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
104
A
hoarse
cry
broke
from
his
twisted
lips:
“Will
you
stop
it,
Bertie!
Do
you
think
I
am
made
of
marble?
Isn’t
it
bad
enough
to
have
sat
watching
one
of
Anatole’s
supremest
dinners
flit
by,
course
after
course,
without
having
you
making
a
song
about
it?
Don’t
remind
me
of
those
nonnettes.
I
can’t
stand
it.”
I
endeavoured
to
hearten
and
console.
“Be
brave,
Tuppy.
Fix
your
thoughts
on
that
cold
steak-and-kidney
pie
in
the
larder.
As
the
Good
Book
says,
it
cometh
in
the
morning.”
“Yes,
in
the
morning.
And
it’s
now
about
half-past
nine
at
night.
You
would
bring
that
pie
up,
wouldn’t
you?
Just
when
I
was
trying
to
keep
my
mind
off
it.”
I
saw
what
he
meant.
Hours
must
pass
before
he
could
dig
into
that
pie.
I
dropped
the
subject,
and
we
sat
for
a
pretty
good
time
in
silence.
Then
he
rose
and
began
to
pace
the
room
in
an
overwrought
sort
of
way,
like
a
zoo
lion
who
has
heard
the
dinner-gong
go
and
is
hoping
the
keeper
won’t
forget
him
in
the
general
distribution.
I
averted
my
gaze
tactfully,
but
I
could
hear
him
kicking
chairs
and
things.
It
was
plain
that
the
man’s
soul
was
in
travail
and
his
blood
pressure
high.
Presently
he
returned
to
his
seat,
and
I
saw
that
he
was
looking
at
me
intently.
There
was
that
about
his
demeanour
that
led
me
to
think
that
he
had
something
to
communicate.
Nor
was
I
wrong.
He
tapped
me
significantly
on
the
knee
and
spoke:
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