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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
234
“Well,
that’s
worse.
We
don’t
want
her
spread
out
in
a
sort
of
purée
on
the
lawn.
It
seems
to
me
that
the
flaw
in
this
scheme
of
yours,
Jeeves,
is
that
it’s
going
to
litter
the
garden
with
mangled
corpses.”
“No,
sir.
You
will
recall
that
Mr.
Travers’s
fear
of
burglars
has
caused
him
to
have
stout
bars
fixed
to
all
the
windows.”
“Of
course,
yes.
Well,
it
sounds
all
right,”
I
said,
though
still
a
bit
doubtfully.
“Quite
possibly
it
may
come
off.
But
I
have
a
feeling
that
it
will
slip
up
somewhere.
However,
I
am
in
no
position
to
cavil
at
even
a
100
to
1
shot.
I
will
adopt
this
policy
of
yours,
Jeeves,
though,
as
I
say,
with
misgivings.
At
what
hour
would
you
suggest
bonging
the
bell?”
“Not
before
midnight,
sir.”
“That
is
to
say,
some
time
after
midnight.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Right-ho,
then.
At
12.30
on
the
dot,
I
will
bong.”
“Very
good,
sir.”
-22-
I
don’t
know
why
it
is,
but
there’s
something
about
the
rural
districts
after
dark
that
always
has
a
rummy
effect
on
me.
In
London
I
can
stay
out
till
all
hours
and
come
home
with
the
milk
without
a
tremor,
but
put
me
in
the
garden
of
a
country
house
after
the
strength
of
the
company
has
gone
to
roost
and
the
place
is
shut
up,
and
a
sort
of
goose-fleshy
feeling
steals
over
me.
The
night
wind
stirs
the
tree-tops,
twigs
crack,
bushes
rustle,
and
before
I
know
where
I
am,
the
morale
has
gone
phut
and
I’m
expecting
the
family
ghost
to
come
sneaking
up
behind
me,
making
groaning
noises.
Dashed
unpleasant,
the
whole
thing,
and
if
you
think
it
improves
matters
to
know
that
you
are
shortly
about
to
ring
the
loudest
fire
bell
in
England
and
start
an
all-hands-to-the-pumps
panic
in
that
quiet,
darkened
house,
you
err.
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