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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
166
“Very
good,
sir.”
He
passed
from
the
room,
and
I
unscrewed
the
flask
and
tilted
into
the
jug
a
generous
modicum
of
its
contents.
And
scarcely
had
I
done
so,
when
there
came
to
my
ears
the
sound
of
footsteps
without.
I
had
only
just
time
to
shove
the
jug
behind
the
photograph
of
Uncle
Tom
on
the
mantelpiece
before
the
door
opened
and
in
came
Gussie,
curveting
like
a
circus
horse.
“What-ho,
Bertie,”
he
said.
“What-ho,
what-ho,
what-ho,
and
again
what-ho.
What
a
beautiful
world
this
is,
Bertie.
One
of
the
nicest
I
ever
met.”
I
stared
at
him,
speechless.
We
Woosters
are
as
quick
as
lightning,
and
I
saw
at
once
that
something
had
happened.
I
mean
to
say,
I
told
you
about
him
walking
round
in
circles.
I
recorded
what
passed
between
us
on
the
lawn.
And
if
I
portrayed
the
scene
with
anything
like
adequate
skill,
the
picture
you
will
have
retained
of
this
Fink-Nottle
will
have
been
that
of
a
nervous
wreck,
sagging
at
the
knees,
green
about
the
gills,
and
picking
feverishly
at
the
lapels
of
his
coat
in
an
ecstasy
of
craven
fear.
In
a
word,
defeatist.
Gussie,
during
that
interview,
had,
in
fine,
exhibited
all
the
earmarks
of
one
licked
to
a
custard.
Vastly
different
was
the
Gussie
who
stood
before
me
now.
Self-confidence
seemed
to
ooze
from
the
fellow’s
every
pore.
His
face
was
flushed,
there
was
a
jovial
light
in
his
eyes,
the
lips
were
parted
in
a
swashbuckling
smile.
And
when
with
a
genial
hand
he
sloshed
me
on
the
back
before
I
could
sidestep,
it
was
as
if
I
had
been
kicked
by
a
mule.
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