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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
163
“Do
you
know
the
one
about----”
“No
good.
I
don’t
want
any
of
your
off-colour
stuff
from
the
Drones’
smoking-room.
I
need
something
clean.
Something
that
will
be
a
help
to
them
in
their
after
lives.
Not
that
I
care
a
damn
about
their
after
lives,
except
that
I
hope
they’ll
all
choke.”
“I
heard
a
story
the
other
day.
I
can’t
quite
remember
it,
but
it
was
about
a
chap
who
snored
and
disturbed
the
neighbours,
and
it
ended,
‘It
was
his
adenoids
that
adenoid
them.’”
He
made
a
weary
gesture.
“You
expect
me
to
work
that
in,
do
you,
into
a
speech
to
be
delivered
to
an
audience
of
boys,
every
one
of
whom
is
probably
riddled
with
adenoids?
Damn
it,
they’d
rush
the
platform.
Leave
me,
Bertie.
Push
off.
That’s
all
I
ask
you
to
do.
Push
off....
Ladies
and
gentlemen,”
said
Gussie,
in
a
low,
soliloquizing
sort
of
way,
“I
do
not
propose
to
detain
this
auspicious
occasion
long----”
It
was
a
thoughtful
Wooster
who
walked
away
and
left
him
at
it.
More
than
ever
I
was
congratulating
myself
on
having
had
the
sterling
good
sense
to
make
all
my
arrangements
so
that
I
could
press
a
button
and
set
things
moving
at
an
instant’s
notice.
Until
now,
you
see,
I
had
rather
entertained
a
sort
of
hope
that
when
I
had
revealed
to
him
the
Bassett’s
mental
attitude,
Nature
would
have
done
the
rest,
bracing
him
up
to
such
an
extent
that
artificial
stimulants
would
not
be
required.
Because,
naturally,
a
chap
doesn’t
want
to
have
to
sprint
about
country
houses
lugging
jugs
of
orange
juice,
unless
it
is
absolutely
essential.
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