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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
36
Bonfires
burst
out
in
all
in
parts
of
the
frame.
The
abdomen
becomes
heavily
charged
with
molten
lava.
A
great
wind
seems
to
blow
through
the
world,
and
the
subject
is
aware
of
something
resembling
a
steam
hammer
striking
the
back
of
the
head.
During
this
phase,
the
ears
ring
loudly,
the
eyeballs
rotate
and
there
is
a
tingling
about
the
brow.
And
then,
just
as
you
are
feeling
that
you
ought
to
ring
up
your
lawyer
and
see
that
your
affairs
are
in
order
before
it
is
too
late,
the
whole
situation
seems
to
clarify.
The
wind
drops.
The
ears
cease
to
ring.
Birds
twitter.
Brass
bands
start
playing.
The
sun
comes
up
over
the
horizon
with
a
jerk.
And
a
moment
later
all
you
are
conscious
of
is
a
great
peace.
As
I
drained
the
glass
now,
new
life
seemed
to
burgeon
within
me.
I
remember
Jeeves,
who,
however
much
he
may
go
off
the
rails
at
times
in
the
matter
of
dress
clothes
and
in
his
advice
to
those
in
love,
has
always
had
a
neat
turn
of
phrase,
once
speaking
of
someone
rising
on
stepping-stones
of
his
dead
self
to
higher
things.
It
was
that
way
with
me
now.
I
felt
that
the
Bertram
Wooster
who
lay
propped
up
against
the
pillows
had
become
a
better,
stronger,
finer
Bertram.
“Thank
you,
Jeeves,”
I
said.
“Not
at
all,
sir.”
“That
touched
the
exact
spot.
I
am
now
able
to
cope
with
life’s
problems.”
“I
am
gratified
to
hear
it,
sir.”
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