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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
14
I
surveyed
him
narrowly.
“Is
this
dudgeon,
Jeeves?”
“No,
sir,
I
am
obliged
to
remain
on
the
premises.
Mr.
Fink-Nottle
informed
me
he
would
be
calling
to
see
me
this
evening.”
“Oh,
Gussie’s
coming,
is
he?
Well,
give
him
my
love.”
“Very
good,
sir.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“And
a
whisky
and
soda,
and
so
forth.”
“Very
good,
sir.”
“Right
ho,
Jeeves.”
I
then
set
off
for
the
Drones.
At
the
Drones
I
ran
into
Pongo
Twistleton,
and
he
talked
so
much
about
this
forthcoming
merry-making
of
his,
of
which
good
reports
had
already
reached
me
through
my
correspondents,
that
it
was
nearing
eleven
when
I
got
home
again.
And
scarcely
had
I
opened
the
door
when
I
heard
voices
in
the
sitting-room,
and
scarcely
had
I
entered
the
sitting-room
when
I
found
that
these
proceeded
from
Jeeves
and
what
appeared
at
first
sight
to
be
the
Devil.
A
closer
scrutiny
informed
me
that
it
was
Gussie
Fink-Nottle,
dressed
as
Mephistopheles.
-2-
“What-ho,
Gussie,”
I
said.
You
couldn’t
have
told
it
from
my
manner,
but
I
was
feeling
more
than
a
bit
nonplussed.
The
spectacle
before
me
was
enough
to
nonplus
anyone.
I
mean
to
say,
this
Fink-Nottle,
as
I
remembered
him,
was
the
sort
of
shy,
shrinking
goop
who
might
have
been
expected
to
shake
like
an
aspen
if
invited
to
so
much
as
a
social
Saturday
afternoon
at
the
vicarage.
And
yet
here
he
was,
if
one
could
credit
one’s
senses,
about
to
take
part
in
a
fancy-dress
ball,
a
form
of
entertainment
notoriously
a
testing
experience
for
the
toughest.
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