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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
128
“Very
good,
Jeeves.
We
will
now
suppose
that
there
has
recently
been
some
little
coolness
between
this
tiger
cub
and
this
tigress.
For
some
days,
let
us
say,
they
have
not
been
on
speaking
terms.
Do
you
think
that
that
would
make
any
difference
to
the
vim
with
which
the
latter
would
leap
to
the
former’s
aid?”
“No,
sir.”
“Exactly.
Here,
then,
in
brief,
is
my
plan,
Jeeves.
I
am
going
to
draw
my
Cousin
Angela
aside
to
a
secluded
spot
and
roast
Tuppy
properly.”
“Roast,
sir?”
“Knock.
Slam.
Tick-off.
Abuse.
Denounce.
I
shall
be
very
terse
about
Tuppy,
giving
it
as
my
opinion
that
in
all
essentials
he
is
more
like
a
wart
hog
than
an
ex-member
of
a
fine
old
English
public
school.
What
will
ensue?
Hearing
him
attacked,
my
Cousin
Angela’s
womanly
heart
will
be
as
sick
as
mud.
The
maternal
tigress
in
her
will
awake.
No
matter
what
differences
they
may
have
had,
she
will
remember
only
that
he
is
the
man
she
loves,
and
will
leap
to
his
defence.
And
from
that
to
falling
into
his
arms
and
burying
the
dead
past
will
be
but
a
step.
How
do
you
react
to
that?”
“The
idea
is
an
ingenious
one,
sir.”
“We
Woosters
are
ingenious,
Jeeves,
exceedingly
ingenious.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“As
a
matter
of
fact,
I
am
not
speaking
without
a
knowledge
of
the
form
book.
I
have
tested
this
theory.”
“Indeed,
sir?”
“Yes,
in
person.
And
it
works.
I
was
standing
on
the
Eden
rock
at
Antibes
last
month,
idly
watching
the
bathers
disport
themselves
in
the
water,
and
a
girl
I
knew
slightly
pointed
at
a
male
diver
and
asked
me
if
I
didn’t
think
his
legs
were
about
the
silliest-looking
pair
of
props
ever
issued
to
human
being.
I
replied
that
I
did,
indeed,
and
for
the
space
of
perhaps
two
minutes
was
extraordinarily
witty
and
satirical
about
this
bird’s
underpinning.
At
the
end
of
that
period,
I
suddenly
felt
as
if
I
had
been
caught
up
in
the
tail
of
a
cyclone.
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