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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
35
“But
did
you
not
give
me
to
understand,
sir,
that
you
wished
to
see
Mr.
Fink-Nottle
to
advise
him
on
his
affairs?”
This,
I
admit,
opened
up
a
new
line
of
thought.
In
the
stress
of
my
emotions,
I
had
clean
forgotten
about
having
taken
Gussie’s
interests
in
hand.
It
altered
things.
One
can’t
give
the
raspberry
to
a
client.
I
mean,
you
didn’t
find
Sherlock
Holmes
refusing
to
see
clients
just
because
he
had
been
out
late
the
night
before
at
Doctor
Watson’s
birthday
party.
I
could
have
wished
that
the
man
had
selected
some
more
suitable
hour
for
approaching
me,
but
as
he
appeared
to
be
a
sort
of
human
lark,
leaving
his
watery
nest
at
daybreak,
I
supposed
I
had
better
give
him
an
audience.
“True,”
I
said.
“All
right.
Bung
him
in.”
“Very
good,
sir.”
“But
before
doing
so,
bring
me
one
of
those
pick-me-ups
of
yours.”
“Very
good,
sir.”
And
presently
he
returned
with
the
vital
essence.
I
have
had
occasion,
I
fancy,
to
speak
before
now
of
these
pick-me-ups
of
Jeeves’s
and
their
effect
on
a
fellow
who
is
hanging
to
life
by
a
thread
on
the
morning
after.
What
they
consist
of,
I
couldn’t
tell
you.
He
says
some
kind
of
sauce,
the
yolk
of
a
raw
egg
and
a
dash
of
red
pepper,
but
nothing
will
convince
me
that
the
thing
doesn’t
go
much
deeper
than
that.
Be
that
as
it
may,
however,
the
results
of
swallowing
one
are
amazing.
For
perhaps
the
split
part
of
a
second
nothing
happens.
It
is
as
though
all
Nature
waited
breathless.
Then,
suddenly,
it
is
as
if
the
Last
Trump
had
sounded
and
Judgment
Day
set
in
with
unusual
severity.
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