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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
247
“Nine,
I
believe,
sir.”
“--a
nine-mile
ride,
and
another
nine-mile
ride
back.”
“I
am
sorry,
sir.”
“No
good
being
sorry
now.
Where
is
this
foul
bone-shaker?”
“I
will
bring
it
out,
sir.”
He
did
so.
I
eyed
it
sourly.
“Where’s
the
lamp?”
“I
fear
there
is
no
lamp,
sir.”
“No
lamp?”
“No,
sir.”
“But
I
may
come
a
fearful
stinker
without
a
lamp.
Suppose
I
barge
into
something.”
I
broke
off
and
eyed
him
frigidly.
“You
smile,
Jeeves.
The
thought
amuses
you?”
“I
beg
your
pardon,
sir.
I
was
thinking
of
a
tale
my
Uncle
Cyril
used
to
tell
me
as
a
child.
An
absurd
little
story,
sir,
though
I
confess
that
I
have
always
found
it
droll.
According
to
my
Uncle
Cyril,
two
men
named
Nicholls
and
Jackson
set
out
to
ride
to
Brighton
on
a
tandem
bicycle,
and
were
so
unfortunate
as
to
come
into
collision
with
a
brewer’s
van.
And
when
the
rescue
party
arrived
on
the
scene
of
the
accident,
it
was
discovered
that
they
had
been
hurled
together
with
such
force
that
it
was
impossible
to
sort
them
out
at
all
adequately.
The
keenest
eye
could
not
discern
which
portion
of
the
fragments
was
Nicholls
and
which
Jackson.
So
they
collected
as
much
as
they
could,
and
called
it
Nixon.
I
remember
laughing
very
much
at
that
story
when
I
was
a
child,
sir.”
I
had
to
pause
a
moment
to
master
my
feelings.
“You
did,
eh?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You
thought
it
funny?”
“Yes,
sir.”
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