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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
236
I
mean
to
say,
I
know
how
moments
when
they’re
faced
with
a
hideous
fate
affect
chaps.
I
remember
Freddie
Widgeon,
one
of
the
most
chivalrous
birds
in
the
Drones,
telling
me
how
there
was
an
alarm
of
fire
once
at
a
seaside
hotel
where
he
was
staying
and,
so
far
from
rushing
about
saving
women,
he
was
down
the
escape
within
ten
seconds
of
the
kick-off,
his
mind
concerned
with
but
one
thing--viz.,
the
personal
well-being
of
F.
Widgeon.
As
far
as
any
idea
of
doing
the
delicately
nurtured
a
bit
of
good
went,
he
tells
me,
he
was
prepared
to
stand
underneath
and
catch
them
in
blankets,
but
no
more.
Why,
then,
should
this
not
be
so
with
Augustus
Fink-Nottle
and
Hildebrand
Glossop?
Such
were
my
thoughts
as
I
stood
toying
with
the
rope,
and
I
believe
I
should
have
turned
the
whole
thing
up,
had
it
not
been
that
at
this
juncture
there
floated
into
my
mind
a
picture
of
the
Bassett
hearing
that
bell
for
the
first
time.
Coming
as
a
wholly
new
experience,
it
would
probably
startle
her
into
a
decline.
And
so
agreeable
was
this
reflection
that
I
waited
no
longer,
but
seized
the
rope,
braced
the
feet
and
snapped
into
it.
Well,
as
I
say,
I
hadn’t
been
expecting
that
bell
to
hush
things
up
to
any
great
extent.
Nor
did
it.
The
last
time
I
had
heard
it,
I
had
been
in
my
room
on
the
other
side
of
the
house,
and
even
so
it
had
hoiked
me
out
of
bed
as
if
something
had
exploded
under
me.
Standing
close
to
it
like
this,
I
got
the
full
force
and
meaning
of
the
thing,
and
I’ve
never
heard
anything
like
it
in
my
puff.
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