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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
245
“Yes,
madam,
Mr.
Wooster
would
perform
the
task
admirably.
He
is
an
expert
cyclist.
He
has
often
boasted
to
me
of
his
triumphs
on
the
wheel.”
I
hadn’t.
I
hadn’t
done
anything
of
the
sort.
It’s
simply
monstrous
how
one’s
words
get
twisted.
All
I
had
ever
done
was
to
mention
to
him--casually,
just
as
an
interesting
item
of
information,
one
day
in
New
York
when
we
were
watching
the
six-day
bicycle
race--that
at
the
age
of
fourteen,
while
spending
my
holidays
with
a
vicar
of
sorts
who
had
been
told
off
to
teach
me
Latin,
I
had
won
the
Choir
Boys’
Handicap
at
the
local
school
treat.
A
different
thing
from
boasting
of
one’s
triumphs
on
the
wheel.
I
mean,
he
was
a
man
of
the
world
and
must
have
known
that
the
form
of
school
treats
is
never
of
the
hottest.
And,
if
I’m
not
mistaken,
I
had
specifically
told
him
that
on
the
occasion
referred
to
I
had
received
half
a
lap
start
and
that
Willie
Punting,
the
odds-on
favourite
to
whom
the
race
was
expected
to
be
a
gift,
had
been
forced
to
retire,
owing
to
having
pinched
his
elder
brother’s
machine
without
asking
the
elder
brother,
and
the
elder
brother
coming
along
just
as
the
pistol
went
and
giving
him
one
on
the
side
of
the
head
and
taking
it
away
from
him,
thus
rendering
him
a
scratched-at-the-post
non-starter.
Yet,
from
the
way
he
talked,
you
would
have
thought
I
was
one
of
those
chaps
in
sweaters
with
medals
all
over
them,
whose
photographs
bob
up
from
time
to
time
in
the
illustrated
press
on
the
occasion
of
their
having
ridden
from
Hyde
Park
Corner
to
Glasgow
in
three
seconds
under
the
hour,
or
whatever
it
is.
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