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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
213
He
spoke,
in
part,
as
follows:
“Hot
dog!
You
ask
me
what
is
it?
Listen.
Make
some
attention
a
little.
Me,
I
have
hit
the
hay,
but
I
do
not
sleep
so
good,
and
presently
I
wake
and
up
I
look,
and
there
is
one
who
make
faces
against
me
through
the
dashed
window.
Is
that
a
pretty
affair?
Is
that
convenient?
If
you
think
I
like
it,
you
jolly
well
mistake
yourself.
I
am
so
mad
as
a
wet
hen.
And
why
not?
I
am
somebody,
isn’t
it?
This
is
a
bedroom,
what-what,
not
a
house
for
some
apes?
Then
for
what
do
blighters
sit
on
my
window
so
cool
as
a
few
cucumbers,
making
some
faces?”
“Quite,”
I
said.
Dashed
reasonable,
was
my
verdict.
He
threw
another
look
up
at
Gussie,
and
did
Exercise
2--the
one
where
you
clutch
the
moustache,
give
it
a
tug
and
then
start
catching
flies.
“Wait
yet
a
little.
I
am
not
finish.
I
say
I
see
this
type
on
my
window,
making
a
few
faces.
But
what
then?
Does
he
buzz
off
when
I
shout
a
cry,
and
leave
me
peaceable?
Not
on
your
life.
He
remain
planted
there,
not
giving
any
damns,
and
sit
regarding
me
like
a
cat
watching
a
duck.
He
make
faces
against
me
and
again
he
make
faces
against
me,
and
the
more
I
command
that
he
should
get
to
hell
out
of
here,
the
more
he
do
not
get
to
hell
out
of
here.
He
cry
something
towards
me,
and
I
demand
what
is
his
desire,
but
he
do
not
explain.
Oh,
no,
that
arrives
never.
He
does
but
shrug
his
head.
What
damn
silliness!
Is
this
amusing
for
me?
You
think
I
like
it?
I
am
not
content
with
such
folly.
I
think
the
poor
mutt’s
loony.
Je
me
fiche
de
ce
type
infect.
C’est
idiot
de
faire
comme
ça
l’oiseau....
Allez-vous-en,
louffier....
Tell
the
boob
to
go
away.
He
is
mad
as
some
March
hatters.”
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