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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
185
The
cheers
that
greeted
this
were
the
loudest
yet.
Anything
about
splitting
trousers
went
straight
to
the
simple
hearts
of
the
young
scholars
of
Market
Snodsbury
Grammar
School.
Two
in
the
row
in
front
of
me
turned
purple,
and
a
small
lad
with
freckles
seated
beside
them
asked
me
for
my
autograph.
“Let
me
tell
you
a
story
about
Bertie
Wooster.”
A
Wooster
can
stand
a
good
deal,
but
he
cannot
stand
having
his
name
bandied
in
a
public
place.
Picking
my
feet
up
softly,
I
was
in
the
very
process
of
executing
a
quiet
sneak
for
the
door,
when
I
perceived
that
the
bearded
bloke
had
at
last
decided
to
apply
the
closure.
Why
he
hadn’t
done
so
before
is
beyond
me.
Spell-bound,
I
take
it.
And,
of
course,
when
a
chap
is
going
like
a
breeze
with
the
public,
as
Gussie
had
been,
it’s
not
so
dashed
easy
to
chip
in.
However,
the
prospect
of
hearing
another
of
Gussie’s
anecdotes
seemed
to
have
done
the
trick.
Rising
rather
as
I
had
risen
from
my
bench
at
the
beginning
of
that
painful
scene
with
Tuppy
in
the
twilight,
he
made
a
leap
for
the
table,
snatched
up
a
book
and
came
bearing
down
on
the
speaker.
He
touched
Gussie
on
the
arm,
and
Gussie,
turning
sharply
and
seeing
a
large
bloke
with
a
beard
apparently
about
to
bean
him
with
a
book,
sprang
back
in
an
attitude
of
self-defence.
“Perhaps,
as
time
is
getting
on,
Mr.
Fink-Nottle,
we
had
better----”
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