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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
113
However,
spilt
milk
blows
nobody
any
good,
and
it
is
useless
to
dwell
upon
it.
The
task
now
confronting
Bertram
was
to
put
matters
right,
and
I
was
pacing
the
lawn,
pondering
to
this
end,
when
I
suddenly
heard
a
groan
so
lost-soulish
that
I
thought
it
must
have
proceeded
from
Uncle
Tom,
escaped
from
captivity
and
come
to
groan
in
the
garden.
Looking
about
me,
however,
I
could
discern
no
uncles.
Puzzled,
I
was
about
to
resume
my
meditations,
when
the
sound
came
again.
And
peering
into
the
shadows
I
observed
a
dim
form
seated
on
one
of
the
rustic
benches
which
so
liberally
dotted
this
pleasance
and
another
dim
form
standing
beside
same.
A
second
and
more
penetrating
glance
and
I
had
assembled
the
facts.
These
dim
forms
were,
in
the
order
named,
Gussie
Fink-Nottle
and
Jeeves.
And
what
Gussie
was
doing,
groaning
all
over
the
place
like
this,
was
more
than
I
could
understand.
Because,
I
mean
to
say,
there
was
no
possibility
of
error.
He
wasn’t
singing.
As
I
approached,
he
gave
an
encore,
and
it
was
beyond
question
a
groan.
Moreover,
I
could
now
see
him
clearly,
and
his
whole
aspect
was
definitely
sand-bagged.
“Good
evening,
sir,”
said
Jeeves.
“Mr.
Fink-Nottle
is
not
feeling
well.”
Nor
was
I.
Gussie
had
begun
to
make
a
low,
bubbling
noise,
and
I
could
no
longer
disguise
it
from
myself
that
something
must
have
gone
seriously
wrong
with
the
works.
I
mean,
I
know
marriage
is
a
pretty
solemn
business
and
the
realization
that
he
is
in
for
it
frequently
churns
a
chap
up
a
bit,
but
I
had
never
come
across
a
case
of
a
newly-engaged
man
taking
it
on
the
chin
so
completely
as
this.
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