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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
115
“Yes,
sir.”
“He
knew
exactly
what
he
had
to
do.
I
had
coached
him
thoroughly
in
lines
and
business.”
“Yes,
sir.
So
Mr.
Fink-Nottle
informed
me.”
“Well,
then----”
“I
regret
to
say,
sir,
that
there
was
a
slight
hitch.”
“You
mean,
something
went
wrong?”
“Yes,
sir.”
I
could
not
fathom.
The
brain
seemed
to
be
tottering
on
its
throne.
“But
how
could
anything
go
wrong?
She
loves
him,
Jeeves.”
“Indeed,
sir?”
“She
definitely
told
me
so.
All
he
had
to
do
was
propose.”
“Yes
sir.”
“Well,
didn’t
he?”
“No,
sir.”
“Then
what
the
dickens
did
he
talk
about?”
“Newts,
sir.”
“Newts?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Newts?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“But
why
did
he
want
to
talk
about
newts?”
“He
did
not
want
to
talk
about
newts,
sir.
As
I
gather
from
Mr.
Fink-Nottle,
nothing
could
have
been
more
alien
to
his
plans.”
I
simply
couldn’t
grasp
the
trend.
“But
you
can’t
force
a
man
to
talk
about
newts.”
“Mr.
Fink-Nottle
was
the
victim
of
a
sudden
unfortunate
spasm
of
nervousness,
sir.
Upon
finding
himself
alone
with
the
young
lady,
he
admits
to
having
lost
his
morale.
In
such
circumstances,
gentlemen
frequently
talk
at
random,
saying
the
first
thing
that
chances
to
enter
their
heads.
This,
in
Mr.
Fink-Nottle’s
case,
would
seem
to
have
been
the
newt,
its
treatment
in
sickness
and
in
health.”
The
scales
fell
from
my
eyes.
I
understood.
I
had
had
the
same
sort
of
thing
happen
to
me
in
moments
of
crisis.
I
remember
once
detaining
a
dentist
with
the
drill
at
one
of
my
lower
bicuspids
and
holding
him
up
for
nearly
ten
minutes
with
a
story
about
a
Scotchman,
an
Irishman,
and
a
Jew.
Purely
automatic.
The
more
he
tried
to
jab,
the
more
I
said
“Hoots,
mon,”
“Begorrah,”
and
“Oy,
oy”.
When
one
loses
one’s
nerve,
one
simply
babbles.
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