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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
161
“No,
no,
Gussie,
old
man.
Your
trousers
won’t
split.”
“How
do
you
know
they
won’t?
Better
men
than
I
have
split
their
trousers.
General
Bosher
was
a
D.S.O.,
with
a
fine
record
of
service
on
the
north-western
frontier
of
India,
and
his
trousers
split.
I
shall
be
a
mockery
and
a
scorn.
I
know
it.
And
you,
fully
cognizant
of
what
I
am
in
for,
come
babbling
about
good
news.
What
news
could
possibly
be
good
to
me
at
this
moment
except
the
information
that
bubonic
plague
had
broken
out
among
the
scholars
of
Market
Snodsbury
Grammar
School,
and
that
they
were
all
confined
to
their
beds
with
spots?”
The
moment
had
come
for
me
to
speak.
I
laid
a
hand
gently
on
his
shoulder.
He
brushed
it
off.
I
laid
it
on
again.
He
brushed
it
off
once
more.
I
was
endeavouring
to
lay
it
on
for
the
third
time,
when
he
moved
aside
and
desired,
with
a
certain
petulance,
to
be
informed
if
I
thought
I
was
a
ruddy
osteopath.
I
found
his
manner
trying,
but
one
has
to
make
allowances.
I
was
telling
myself
that
I
should
be
seeing
a
very
different
Gussie
after
lunch.
“When
I
said
I
had
good
news,
old
man,
I
meant
about
Madeline
Bassett.”
The
febrile
gleam
died
out
of
his
eyes,
to
be
replaced
by
a
look
of
infinite
sadness.
“You
can’t
have
good
news
about
her.
I’ve
dished
myself
there
completely.”
“Not
at
all.
I
am
convinced
that
if
you
take
another
whack
at
her,
all
will
be
well.”
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