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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
139
And
I
emitted
a
hard
laugh--one
of
the
sneering
kind.
“I
always
thought
you
were
such
friends,”
said
Angela.
I
let
go
another
hard
one,
with
a
bit
more
top
spin
on
it
than
the
first
time:
“Friends?
Absolutely
not.
One
was
civil,
of
course,
when
one
met
the
fellow,
but
it
would
be
absurd
to
say
one
was
a
friend
of
his.
A
club
acquaintance,
and
a
mere
one
at
that.
And
then
one
was
at
school
with
the
man.”
“At
Eton?”
“Good
heavens,
no.
We
wouldn’t
have
a
fellow
like
that
at
Eton.
At
a
kid’s
school
before
I
went
there.
A
grubby
little
brute
he
was,
I
recollect.
Covered
with
ink
and
mire
generally,
washing
only
on
alternate
Thursdays.
In
short,
a
notable
outsider,
shunned
by
all.”
I
paused.
I
was
more
than
a
bit
perturbed.
Apart
from
the
agony
of
having
to
talk
in
this
fashion
of
one
who,
except
when
he
was
looping
back
rings
and
causing
me
to
plunge
into
swimming
baths
in
correct
evening
costume,
had
always
been
a
very
dear
and
esteemed
crony,
I
didn’t
seem
to
be
getting
anywhere.
Business
was
not
resulting.
Staring
into
the
bushes
without
a
yip,
she
appeared
to
be
bearing
these
slurs
and
innuendos
of
mine
with
an
easy
calm.
I
had
another
pop
at
it:
“‘Uncouth’
about
sums
it
up.
I
doubt
if
I’ve
ever
seen
an
uncouther
kid
than
this
Glossop.
Ask
anyone
who
knew
him
in
those
days
to
describe
him
in
a
word,
and
the
word
they
will
use
is
‘uncouth’.
And
he’s
just
the
same
today.
It’s
the
old
story.
The
boy
is
the
father
of
the
man.”
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