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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
174
“Yes,
sir.”
“You
see
now
how
right
I
was.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“It
must
have
been
rather
an
eye-opener
for
you,
watching
me
handle
this
case.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“The
simple,
direct
method
never
fails.”
“No,
sir.”
“Whereas
the
elaborate
does.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Right
ho,
Jeeves.”
We
had
arrived
at
the
main
entrance
of
Market
Snodsbury
Grammar
School.
I
parked
the
car,
and
went
in,
well
content.
True,
the
Tuppy-Angela
problem
still
remained
unsolved
and
Aunt
Dahlia’s
five
hundred
quid
seemed
as
far
off
as
ever,
but
it
was
gratifying
to
feel
that
good
old
Gussie’s
troubles
were
over,
at
any
rate.
The
Grammar
School
at
Market
Snodsbury
had,
I
understood,
been
built
somewhere
in
the
year
1416,
and,
as
with
so
many
of
these
ancient
foundations,
there
still
seemed
to
brood
over
its
Great
Hall,
where
the
afternoon’s
festivities
were
to
take
place,
not
a
little
of
the
fug
of
the
centuries.
It
was
the
hottest
day
of
the
summer,
and
though
somebody
had
opened
a
tentative
window
or
two,
the
atmosphere
remained
distinctive
and
individual.
In
this
hall
the
youth
of
Market
Snodsbury
had
been
eating
its
daily
lunch
for
a
matter
of
five
hundred
years,
and
the
flavour
lingered.
The
air
was
sort
of
heavy
and
languorous,
if
you
know
what
I
mean,
with
the
scent
of
Young
England
and
boiled
beef
and
carrots.
Aunt
Dahlia,
who
was
sitting
with
a
bevy
of
the
local
nibs
in
the
second
row,
sighted
me
as
I
entered
and
waved
to
me
to
join
her,
but
I
was
too
smart
for
that.
I
wedged
myself
in
among
the
standees
at
the
back,
leaning
up
against
a
chap
who,
from
the
aroma,
might
have
been
a
corn
chandler
or
something
on
that
order.
The
essence
of
strategy
on
these
occasions
is
to
be
as
near
the
door
as
possible.
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