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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
148
Speaking
rapidly
and
keeping
moving,
I
related
my
emotions
on
receipt
of
Aunt
Dahlia’s
telegram,
my
instant
rush
to
the
scene
of
the
disaster,
my
meditations
in
the
car,
and
the
eventual
framing
of
this
well-laid
plan
of
mine.
I
spoke
clearly
and
well,
and
it
was
with
considerable
concern,
consequently,
that
I
heard
him
observe--between
clenched
teeth,
which
made
it
worse--that
he
didn’t
believe
a
damned
word
of
it.
“But,
Tuppy,”
I
said,
“why
not?
To
me
the
thing
rings
true
to
the
last
drop.
What
makes
you
sceptical?
Confide
in
me,
Tuppy.”
He
halted
and
stood
taking
a
breather.
Tuppy,
pungently
though
Angela
might
have
argued
to
the
contrary,
isn’t
really
fat.
During
the
winter
months
you
will
find
him
constantly
booting
the
football
with
merry
shouts,
and
in
the
summer
the
tennis
racket
is
seldom
out
of
his
hand.
But
at
the
recently
concluded
evening
meal,
feeling,
no
doubt,
that
after
that
painful
scene
in
the
larder
there
was
nothing
to
be
gained
by
further
abstinence,
he
had
rather
let
himself
go
and,
as
it
were,
made
up
leeway;
and
after
really
immersing
himself
in
one
of
Anatole’s
dinners,
a
man
of
his
sturdy
build
tends
to
lose
elasticity
a
bit.
During
the
exposition
of
my
plans
for
his
happiness
a
certain
animation
had
crept
into
this
round-and-round-the
mulberry-bush
jamboree
of
ours--so
much
so,
indeed,
that
for
the
last
few
minutes
we
might
have
been
a
rather
oversized
greyhound
and
a
somewhat
slimmer
electric
hare
doing
their
stuff
on
a
circular
track
for
the
entertainment
of
the
many-headed.
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