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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
211
I
say
that
my
place
was
by
her
side,
but
it
was
not
so
dashed
easy
to
get
there,
for
she
was
setting
a
cracking
pace.
At
the
top
of
the
first
flight
she
must
have
led
by
a
matter
of
half
a
dozen
lengths,
and
was
still
shaking
off
my
challenge
when
she
rounded
into
the
second.
At
the
next
landing,
however,
the
gruelling
going
appeared
to
tell
on
her,
for
she
slackened
off
a
trifle
and
showed
symptoms
of
roaring,
and
by
the
time
we
were
in
the
straight
we
were
running
practically
neck
and
neck.
Our
entry
into
Anatole’s
room
was
as
close
a
finish
as
you
could
have
wished
to
see.
Result:
1.
Aunt
Dahlia.
2.
Bertram.
3.
Seppings.
Won
by
a
short
head.
Half
a
staircase
separated
second
and
third.
The
first
thing
that
met
the
eye
on
entering
was
Anatole.
This
wizard
of
the
cooking-stove
is
a
tubby
little
man
with
a
moustache
of
the
outsize
or
soup-strainer
type,
and
you
can
generally
take
a
line
through
it
as
to
the
state
of
his
emotions.
When
all
is
well,
it
turns
up
at
the
ends
like
a
sergeant-major’s.
When
the
soul
is
bruised,
it
droops.
It
was
drooping
now,
striking
a
sinister
note.
And
if
any
shadow
of
doubt
had
remained
as
to
how
he
was
feeling,
the
way
he
was
carrying
on
would
have
dispelled
it.
He
was
standing
by
the
bed
in
pink
pyjamas,
waving
his
fists
at
the
skylight.
Through
the
glass,
Gussie
was
staring
down.
His
eyes
were
bulging
and
his
mouth
was
open,
giving
him
so
striking
a
resemblance
to
some
rare
fish
in
an
aquarium
that
one’s
primary
impulse
was
to
offer
him
an
ant’s
egg.
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