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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
254
Mark
that
word
“unnecessary”.
That
was
the
part
of
it
that
really
jabbed
the
iron
into
the
soul.
I
mean,
if
it
was
a
case
of
riding
to
the
doctor’s
to
save
the
child
with
croup,
or
going
off
to
the
local
pub
to
fetch
supplies
in
the
event
of
the
cellar
having
run
dry,
no
one
would
leap
to
the
handlebars
more
readily
than
I.
Young
Lochinvar,
absolutely.
But
this
business
of
being
put
through
it
merely
to
gratify
one’s
personal
attendant’s
diseased
sense
of
the
amusing
was
a
bit
too
thick,
and
I
chafed
from
start
to
finish.
So,
what
I
mean
to
say,
although
the
providence
which
watches
over
good
men
saw
to
it
that
I
was
enabled
to
complete
the
homeward
journey
unscathed
except
in
the
billowy
portions,
removing
from
my
path
all
goats,
elephants,
and
even
owls
that
looked
like
my
Aunt
Agatha,
it
was
a
frowning
and
jaundiced
Bertram
who
finally
came
to
anchor
at
the
Brinkley
Court
front
door.
And
when
I
saw
a
dark
figure
emerging
from
the
porch
to
meet
me,
I
prepared
to
let
myself
go
and
uncork
all
that
was
fizzing
in
the
mind.
“Jeeves!”
I
said.
“It
is
I,
Bertie.”
The
voice
which
spoke
sounded
like
warm
treacle,
and
even
if
I
had
not
recognized
it
immediately
as
that
of
the
Bassett,
I
should
have
known
that
it
did
not
proceed
from
the
man
I
was
yearning
to
confront.
For
this
figure
before
me
was
wearing
a
simple
tweed
dress
and
had
employed
my
first
name
in
its
remarks.
And
Jeeves,
whatever
his
moral
defects,
would
never
go
about
in
skirts
calling
me
Bertie.
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