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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
111
“I
am
sorry.”
“What’s
the
good
of
being
sorry?”
“I
acted
for
what
I
deemed
the
best.”
“Another
time
try
acting
for
the
worst.
Then
we
may
possibly
escape
with
a
mere
flesh
wound.”
“Uncle
Tom’s
not
feeling
too
bucked
about
it
all,
you
say?”
“He’s
groaning
like
a
lost
soul.
And
any
chance
I
ever
had
of
getting
that
money
out
of
him
has
gone.”
I
stroked
the
chin
thoughtfully.
There
was,
I
had
to
admit,
reason
in
what
she
said.
None
knew
better
than
I
how
terrible
a
blow
the
passing
of
Anatole
would
be
to
Uncle
Tom.
I
have
stated
earlier
in
this
chronicle
that
this
curious
object
of
the
seashore
with
whom
Aunt
Dahlia
has
linked
her
lot
is
a
bloke
who
habitually
looks
like
a
pterodactyl
that
has
suffered,
and
the
reason
he
does
so
is
that
all
those
years
he
spent
in
making
millions
in
the
Far
East
put
his
digestion
on
the
blink,
and
the
only
cook
that
has
ever
been
discovered
capable
of
pushing
food
into
him
without
starting
something
like
Old
Home
Week
in
Moscow
under
the
third
waistcoat
button
is
this
uniquely
gifted
Anatole.
Deprived
of
Anatole’s
services,
all
he
was
likely
to
give
the
wife
of
his
b.
was
a
dirty
look.
Yes,
unquestionably,
things
seemed
to
have
struck
a
somewhat
rocky
patch,
and
I
must
admit
that
I
found
myself,
at
moment
of
going
to
press,
a
little
destitute
of
constructive
ideas.
Confident,
however,
that
these
would
come
ere
long,
I
kept
the
stiff
upper
lip.
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