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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
167
“Well,
Bertie,”
he
proceeded,
as
blithely
as
a
linnet
without
a
thing
on
his
mind,
“you
will
be
glad
to
hear
that
you
were
right.
Your
theory
has
been
tested
and
proved
correct.
I
feel
like
a
fighting
cock.”
My
brain
ceased
to
reel.
I
saw
all.
“Have
you
been
having
a
drink?”
“I
have.
As
you
advised.
Unpleasant
stuff.
Like
medicine.
Burns
your
throat,
too,
and
makes
one
as
thirsty
as
the
dickens.
How
anyone
can
mop
it
up,
as
you
do,
for
pleasure,
beats
me.
Still,
I
would
be
the
last
to
deny
that
it
tunes
up
the
system.
I
could
bite
a
tiger.”
“What
did
you
have?”
“Whisky.
At
least,
that
was
the
label
on
the
decanter,
and
I
have
no
reason
to
suppose
that
a
woman
like
your
aunt--staunch,
true-blue,
British--would
deliberately
deceive
the
public.
If
she
labels
her
decanters
Whisky,
then
I
consider
that
we
know
where
we
are.”
“A
whisky
and
soda,
eh?
You
couldn’t
have
done
better.”
“Soda?”
said
Gussie
thoughtfully.
“I
knew
there
was
something
I
had
forgotten.”
“Didn’t
you
put
any
soda
in
it?”
“It
never
occurred
to
me.
I
just
nipped
into
the
dining-room
and
drank
out
of
the
decanter.”
“How
much?”
“Oh,
about
ten
swallows.
Twelve,
maybe.
Or
fourteen.
Say
sixteen
medium-sized
gulps.
Gosh,
I’m
thirsty.”
He
moved
over
to
the
wash-stand
and
drank
deeply
out
of
the
water
bottle.
I
cast
a
covert
glance
at
Uncle
Tom’s
photograph
behind
his
back.
For
the
first
time
since
it
had
come
into
my
life,
I
was
glad
that
it
was
so
large.
It
hid
its
secret
well.
If
Gussie
had
caught
sight
of
that
jug
of
orange
juice,
he
would
unquestionably
have
been
on
to
it
like
a
knife.
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