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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
145
His
hair
was
full
of
twigs,
and
there
was
a
beetle
hanging
to
the
side
of
his
head
which
would
have
interested
Gussie
Fink-Nottle.
To
this,
however,
I
paid
scant
attention.
There
is
a
time
for
studying
beetles
and
a
time
for
not
studying
beetles.
“So!”
he
said
again.
Now,
those
who
know
Bertram
Wooster
best
will
tell
you
that
he
is
always
at
his
shrewdest
and
most
level-headed
in
moments
of
peril.
Who
was
it
who,
when
gripped
by
the
arm
of
the
law
on
boat-race
night
not
so
many
years
ago
and
hauled
off
to
Vine
Street
police
station,
assumed
in
a
flash
the
identity
of
Eustace
H.
Plimsoll,
of
The
Laburnums,
Alleyn
Road,
West
Dulwich,
thus
saving
the
grand
old
name
of
Wooster
from
being
dragged
in
the
mire
and
avoiding
wide
publicity
of
the
wrong
sort?
Who
was
it
...
But
I
need
not
labour
the
point.
My
record
speaks
for
itself.
Three
times
pinched,
but
never
once
sentenced
under
the
correct
label.
Ask
anyone
at
the
Drones
about
this.
So
now,
in
a
situation
threatening
to
become
every
moment
more
scaly,
I
did
not
lose
my
head.
I
preserved
the
old
sang-froid.
Smiling
a
genial
and
affectionate
smile,
and
hoping
that
it
wasn’t
too
dark
for
it
to
register,
I
spoke
with
a
jolly
cordiality:
“Why,
hallo,
Tuppy.
You
here?”
He
said,
yes,
he
was
here.
“Been
here
long?”
“I
have.”
“Fine.
I
wanted
to
see
you.”
“Well,
here
I
am.
Come
out
from
behind
that
bench.”
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