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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
219
Pained
and
surprised,
I
would
have
spoken,
but
the
stuff
I
had
thought
was
anchovy
paste
had
turned
out
to
be
something
far
more
gooey
and
adhesive.
It
seemed
to
wrap
itself
round
the
tongue
and
impede
utterance
like
a
gag.
And
while
I
was
still
endeavouring
to
clear
the
vocal
cords
for
action,
she
went
on:
“Do
you
realize
what
you
started
when
you
sent
that
Spink-Bottle
man
down
here?
As
regards
his
getting
blotto
and
turning
the
prize-giving
ceremonies
at
Market
Snodsbury
Grammar
School
into
a
sort
of
two-reel
comic
film,
I
will
say
nothing,
for
frankly
I
enjoyed
it.
But
when
he
comes
leering
at
Anatole
through
skylights,
just
after
I
had
with
infinite
pains
and
tact
induced
him
to
withdraw
his
notice,
and
makes
him
so
temperamental
that
he
won’t
hear
of
staying
on
after
tomorrow----”
The
paste
stuff
gave
way.
I
was
able
to
speak:
“What?”
“Yes,
Anatole
goes
tomorrow,
and
I
suppose
poor
old
Tom
will
have
indigestion
for
the
rest
of
his
life.
And
that
is
not
all.
I
have
just
seen
Angela,
and
she
tells
me
she
is
engaged
to
this
Bottle.”
“Temporarily,
yes,”
I
had
to
admit.
“Temporarily
be
blowed.
She’s
definitely
engaged
to
him
and
talks
with
a
sort
of
hideous
coolness
of
getting
married
in
October.
So
there
it
is.
If
the
prophet
Job
were
to
walk
into
the
room
at
this
moment,
I
could
sit
swapping
hard-luck
stories
with
him
till
bedtime.
Not
that
Job
was
in
my
class.”
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