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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
235
I
knew
all
about
the
Brinkley
Court
fire
bell.
The
dickens
of
a
row
it
makes.
Uncle
Tom,
in
addition
to
not
liking
burglars,
is
a
bloke
who
has
always
objected
to
the
idea
of
being
cooked
in
his
sleep,
so
when
he
bought
the
place
he
saw
to
it
that
the
fire
bell
should
be
something
that
might
give
you
heart
failure,
but
which
you
couldn’t
possibly
mistake
for
the
drowsy
chirping
of
a
sparrow
in
the
ivy.
When
I
was
a
kid
and
spent
my
holidays
at
Brinkley,
we
used
to
have
fire
drills
after
closing
time,
and
many
is
the
night
I’ve
had
it
jerk
me
out
of
the
dreamless
like
the
Last
Trump.
I
confess
that
the
recollection
of
what
this
bell
could
do
when
it
buckled
down
to
it
gave
me
pause
as
I
stood
that
night
at
12.30
p.m.
prompt
beside
the
outhouse
where
it
was
located.
The
sight
of
the
rope
against
the
whitewashed
wall
and
the
thought
of
the
bloodsome
uproar
which
was
about
to
smash
the
peace
of
the
night
into
hash
served
to
deepen
that
rummy
feeling
to
which
I
have
alluded.
Moreover,
now
that
I
had
had
time
to
meditate
upon
it,
I
was
more
than
ever
defeatist
about
this
scheme
of
Jeeves’s.
Jeeves
seemed
to
take
it
for
granted
that
Gussie
and
Tuppy,
faced
with
a
hideous
fate,
would
have
no
thought
beyond
saving
the
Bassett
and
Angela.
I
could
not
bring
myself
to
share
his
sunny
confidence.
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