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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
32
“You’re
pulling
my
leg.”
“I
am
not
pulling
your
leg.
Nothing
would
induce
me
to
touch
your
beastly
leg.
The
vicar
was
to
have
officiated,
but
when
I
got
home
I
found
a
letter
from
him
saying
that
he
had
strained
a
fetlock
and
must
scratch
his
nomination.
You
can
imagine
the
state
I
was
in.
I
telephoned
all
over
the
place.
Nobody
would
take
it
on.
And
then
suddenly
I
thought
of
you.”
I
decided
to
check
all
this
rot
at
the
outset.
Nobody
is
more
eager
to
oblige
deserving
aunts
than
Bertram
Wooster,
but
there
are
limits,
and
sharply
defined
limits,
at
that.
“So
you
think
I’m
going
to
strew
prizes
at
this
bally
Dotheboys
Hall
of
yours?”
“I
do.”
“And
make
a
speech?”
“Exactly.”
I
laughed
derisively.
“For
goodness’
sake,
don’t
start
gargling
now.
This
is
serious.”
“I
was
laughing.”
“Oh,
were
you?
Well,
I’m
glad
to
see
you
taking
it
in
this
merry
spirit.”
“Derisively,”
I
explained.
“I
won’t
do
it.
That’s
final.
I
simply
will
not
do
it.”
“You
will
do
it,
young
Bertie,
or
never
darken
my
doors
again.
And
you
know
what
that
means.
No
more
of
Anatole’s
dinners
for
you.”
A
strong
shudder
shook
me.
She
was
alluding
to
her
chef,
that
superb
artist.
A
monarch
of
his
profession,
unsurpassed--nay,
unequalled--at
dishing
up
the
raw
material
so
that
it
melted
in
the
mouth
of
the
ultimate
consumer,
Anatole
had
always
been
a
magnet
that
drew
me
to
Brinkley
Court
with
my
tongue
hanging
out.
Many
of
my
happiest
moments
had
been
those
which
I
had
spent
champing
this
great
man’s
roasts
and
ragouts,
and
the
prospect
of
being
barred
from
digging
into
them
in
the
future
was
a
numbing
one.
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