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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
200
“Jeeves,”
said
Gussie.
“Sir?”
said
Jeeves.
“Is
that
door
locked,
Jeeves?”
“No,
sir,
but
I
will
attend
to
the
matter
immediately.”
Gussie
sat
down
on
the
bed,
and
I
thought
for
a
moment
that
he
was
going
to
be
in
the
mode
by
burying
his
face
in
his
hands.
However,
he
merely
brushed
a
dead
spider
from
his
brow.
“Have
you
locked
the
door,
Jeeves?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Because
you
can
never
tell
that
that
ghastly
Glossop
may
not
take
it
into
his
head
to
come----”
The
word
“back”
froze
on
his
lips.
He
hadn’t
got
any
further
than
a
b-ish
sound,
when
the
handle
of
the
door
began
to
twist
and
rattle.
He
sprang
from
the
bed,
and
for
an
instant
stood
looking
exactly
like
a
picture
my
Aunt
Agatha
has
in
her
dining-room--The
Stag
at
Bay--Landseer.
Then
he
made
a
dive
for
the
cupboard
and
was
inside
it
before
one
really
got
on
to
it
that
he
had
started
leaping.
I
have
seen
fellows
late
for
the
9.15
move
less
nippily.
I
shot
a
glance
at
Jeeves.
He
allowed
his
right
eyebrow
to
flicker
slightly,
which
is
as
near
as
he
ever
gets
to
a
display
of
the
emotions.
“Hullo?”
I
yipped.
“Let
me
in,
blast
you!”
responded
Tuppy’s
voice
from
without.
“Who
locked
this
door?”
I
consulted
Jeeves
once
more
in
the
language
of
the
eyebrow.
He
raised
one
of
his.
I
raised
one
of
mine.
He
raised
his
other.
I
raised
my
other.
Then
we
both
raised
both.
Finally,
there
seeming
no
other
policy
to
pursue,
I
flung
wide
the
gates
and
Tuppy
came
shooting
in.
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