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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
3
As
I
recall
it,
the
dialogue
ran
something
as
follows:
SELF:
Well,
Jeeves,
here
we
are,
what?
JEEVES:
Yes,
sir.
SELF:
I
mean
to
say,
home
again.
JEEVES:
Precisely,
sir.
SELF:
Seems
ages
since
I
went
away.
JEEVES:
Yes,
sir.
SELF:
Have
a
good
time
at
Ascot?
JEEVES:
Most
agreeable,
sir.
SELF:
Win
anything?
JEEVES:
Quite
a
satisfactory
sum,
thank
you,
sir.
SELF:
Good.
Well,
Jeeves,
what
news
on
the
Rialto?
Anybody
been
phoning
or
calling
or
anything
during
my
abs.?
JEEVES:
Mr.
Fink-Nottle,
sir,
has
been
a
frequent
caller.
I
stared.
Indeed,
it
would
not
be
too
much
to
say
that
I
gaped.
“Mr.
Fink-Nottle?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You
don’t
mean
Mr.
Fink-Nottle?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“But
Mr.
Fink-Nottle’s
not
in
London?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Well,
I’m
blowed.”
And
I’ll
tell
you
why
I
was
blowed.
I
found
it
scarcely
possible
to
give
credence
to
his
statement.
This
Fink-Nottle,
you
see,
was
one
of
those
freaks
you
come
across
from
time
to
time
during
life’s
journey
who
can’t
stand
London.
He
lived
year
in
and
year
out,
covered
with
moss,
in
a
remote
village
down
in
Lincolnshire,
never
coming
up
even
for
the
Eton
and
Harrow
match.
And
when
I
asked
him
once
if
he
didn’t
find
the
time
hang
a
bit
heavy
on
his
hands,
he
said,
no,
because
he
had
a
pond
in
his
garden
and
studied
the
habits
of
newts.
I
couldn’t
imagine
what
could
have
brought
the
chap
up
to
the
great
city.
I
would
have
been
prepared
to
bet
that
as
long
as
the
supply
of
newts
didn’t
give
out,
nothing
could
have
shifted
him
from
that
village
of
his.
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