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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
17
“Yes.”
“Well,
dash
it,
with
a
thing
like
that
to
give
you
a
send-off,
why
didn’t
you
cash
in
immediately?”
“I
hadn’t
the
nerve.”
“What
happened?”
“We
talked
for
a
bit.”
“What
about?”
“Oh,
birds.”
“Birds?
What
birds?”
“The
birds
that
happened
to
be
hanging
round.
And
the
scenery,
and
all
that
sort
of
thing.
And
she
said
she
was
going
to
London,
and
asked
me
to
look
her
up
if
I
was
ever
there.”
“And
even
after
that
you
didn’t
so
much
as
press
her
hand?”
“Of
course
not.”
Well,
I
mean,
it
looked
as
though
there
was
no
more
to
be
said.
If
a
chap
is
such
a
rabbit
that
he
can’t
get
action
when
he’s
handed
the
thing
on
a
plate,
his
case
would
appear
to
be
pretty
hopeless.
Nevertheless,
I
reminded
myself
that
this
non-starter
and
I
had
been
at
school
together.
One
must
make
an
effort
for
an
old
school
friend.
“Ah,
well,”
I
said,
“we
must
see
what
can
be
done.
Things
may
brighten.
At
any
rate,
you
will
be
glad
to
learn
that
I
am
behind
you
in
this
enterprise.
You
have
Bertram
Wooster
in
your
corner,
Gussie.”
“Thanks,
old
man.
And
Jeeves,
of
course,
which
is
the
thing
that
really
matters.”
I
don’t
mind
admitting
that
I
winced.
He
meant
no
harm,
I
suppose,
but
I’m
bound
to
say
that
this
tactless
speech
nettled
me
not
a
little.
People
are
always
nettling
me
like
that.
Giving
me
to
understand,
I
mean
to
say,
that
in
their
opinion
Bertram
Wooster
is
a
mere
cipher
and
that
the
only
member
of
the
household
with
brains
and
resources
is
Jeeves.
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