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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
147
“I’m
Scotch.”
“Really?”
I
said.
“I
never
knew
that
before.
Rummy
how
you
don’t
suspect
a
man
of
being
Scotch
unless
he’s
Mac-something
and
says
‘Och,
aye’
and
things
like
that.
I
wonder,”
I
went
on,
feeling
that
an
academic
discussion
on
some
neutral
topic
might
ease
the
tension,
“if
you
can
tell
me
something
that
has
puzzled
me
a
good
deal.
What
exactly
is
it
that
they
put
into
haggis?
I’ve
often
wondered
about
that.”
From
the
fact
that
his
only
response
to
the
question
was
to
leap
over
the
bench
and
make
a
grab
at
me,
I
gathered
that
his
mind
was
not
on
haggis.
“However,”
I
said,
leaping
over
the
bench
in
my
turn,
“that
is
a
side
issue.
If,
to
come
back
to
it,
you
were
in
those
bushes
and
heard
what
I
was
saying
about
you----”
He
began
to
move
round
the
bench
in
a
nor’-nor’-easterly
direction.
I
followed
his
example,
setting
a
course
sou’-sou’-west.
“No
doubt
you
were
surprised
at
the
way
I
was
talking.”
“Not
a
bit.”
“What?
Did
nothing
strike
you
as
odd
in
the
tone
of
my
remarks?”
“It
was
just
the
sort
of
stuff
I
should
have
expected
a
treacherous,
sneaking
hound
like
you
to
say.”
“My
dear
chap,”
I
protested,
“this
is
not
your
usual
form.
A
bit
slow
in
the
uptake,
surely?
I
should
have
thought
you
would
have
spotted
right
away
that
it
was
all
part
of
a
well-laid
plan.”
“I’ll
get
you
in
a
jiffy,”
said
Tuppy,
recovering
his
balance
after
a
swift
clutch
at
my
neck.
And
so
probable
did
this
seem
that
I
delayed
no
longer,
but
hastened
to
place
all
the
facts
before
him.
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