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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
31
“Never.”
“It’s
a
grammar
school
at
Market
Snodsbury.”
I
told
her
a
little
frigidly
that
I
had
divined
as
much.
“Well,
how
was
I
to
know
that
a
man
with
a
mind
like
yours
would
grasp
it
so
quickly?”
she
protested.
“All
right,
then.
Market
Snodsbury
Grammar
School
is,
as
you
have
guessed,
the
grammar
school
at
Market
Snodsbury.
I’m
one
of
the
governors.”
“You
mean
one
of
the
governesses.”
“I
don’t
mean
one
of
the
governesses.
Listen,
ass.
There
was
a
board
of
governors
at
Eton,
wasn’t
there?
Very
well.
So
there
is
at
Market
Snodsbury
Grammar
School,
and
I’m
a
member
of
it.
And
they
left
the
arrangements
for
the
summer
prize-giving
to
me.
This
prize-giving
takes
place
on
the
last--or
thirty-first--day
of
this
month.
Have
you
got
that
clear?”
I
took
another
oz.
of
the
life-saving
and
inclined
my
head.
Even
after
a
Pongo
Twistleton
birthday
party,
I
was
capable
of
grasping
simple
facts
like
these.
“I
follow
you,
yes.
I
see
the
point
you
are
trying
to
make,
certainly.
Market
...
Snodsbury
...
Grammar
School
...
Board
of
governors
...
Prize-giving....
Quite.
But
what’s
it
got
to
do
with
me?”
“You’re
going
to
give
away
the
prizes.”
I
goggled.
Her
words
did
not
appear
to
make
sense.
They
seemed
the
mere
aimless
vapouring
of
an
aunt
who
has
been
sitting
out
in
the
sun
without
a
hat.
“Me?”
“You.”
I
goggled
again.
“You
don’t
mean
me?”
“I
mean
you
in
person.”
I
goggled
a
third
time.
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