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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
175
The
hall
was
gaily
decorated
with
flags
and
coloured
paper,
and
the
eye
was
further
refreshed
by
the
spectacle
of
a
mixed
drove
of
boys,
parents,
and
what
not,
the
former
running
a
good
deal
to
shiny
faces
and
Eton
collars,
the
latter
stressing
the
black-satin
note
rather
when
female,
and
looking
as
if
their
coats
were
too
tight,
if
male.
And
presently
there
was
some
applause--sporadic,
Jeeves
has
since
told
me
it
was--and
I
saw
Gussie
being
steered
by
a
bearded
bloke
in
a
gown
to
a
seat
in
the
middle
of
the
platform.
And
I
confess
that
as
I
beheld
him
and
felt
that
there
but
for
the
grace
of
God
went
Bertram
Wooster,
a
shudder
ran
through
the
frame.
It
all
reminded
me
so
vividly
of
the
time
I
had
addressed
that
girls’
school.
Of
course,
looking
at
it
dispassionately,
you
may
say
that
for
horror
and
peril
there
is
no
comparison
between
an
almost
human
audience
like
the
one
before
me
and
a
mob
of
small
girls
with
pigtails
down
their
backs,
and
this,
I
concede,
is
true.
Nevertheless,
the
spectacle
was
enough
to
make
me
feel
like
a
fellow
watching
a
pal
going
over
Niagara
Falls
in
a
barrel,
and
the
thought
of
what
I
had
escaped
caused
everything
for
a
moment
to
go
black
and
swim
before
my
eyes.
When
I
was
able
to
see
clearly
once
more,
I
perceived
that
Gussie
was
now
seated.
He
had
his
hands
on
his
knees,
with
his
elbows
out
at
right
angles,
like
a
nigger
minstrel
of
the
old
school
about
to
ask
Mr.
Bones
why
a
chicken
crosses
the
road,
and
he
was
staring
before
him
with
a
smile
so
fixed
and
pebble-beached
that
I
should
have
thought
that
anybody
could
have
guessed
that
there
sat
one
in
whom
the
old
familiar
juice
was
splashing
up
against
the
back
of
the
front
teeth.
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