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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
54
“Still,
no
doubt
Time,
the
great
healer----”
“Time,
the
great
healer,
be
blowed.
I’ve
got
to
get
a
cheque
for
five
hundred
pounds
out
of
him
for
Milady’s
Boudoir
by
August
the
third
at
the
latest.”
I
was
concerned.
Apart
from
a
nephew’s
natural
interest
in
an
aunt’s
refined
weekly
paper,
I
had
always
had
a
soft
spot
in
my
heart
for
Milady’s
Boudoir
ever
since
I
contributed
that
article
to
it
on
What
the
Well-Dressed
Man
is
Wearing.
Sentimental,
possibly,
but
we
old
journalists
do
have
these
feelings.
“Is
the
Boudoir
on
the
rocks?”
“It
will
be
if
Tom
doesn’t
cough
up.
It
needs
help
till
it
has
turned
the
corner.”
“But
wasn’t
it
turning
the
corner
two
years
ago?”
“It
was.
And
it’s
still
at
it.
Till
you’ve
run
a
weekly
paper
for
women,
you
don’t
know
what
corners
are.”
“And
you
think
the
chances
of
getting
into
uncle--into
my
uncle
by
marriage’s
ribs
are
slight?”
“I’ll
tell
you,
Bertie.
Up
till
now,
when
these
subsidies
were
required,
I
have
always
been
able
to
come
to
Tom
in
the
gay,
confident
spirit
of
an
only
child
touching
an
indulgent
father
for
chocolate
cream.
But
he’s
just
had
a
demand
from
the
income-tax
people
for
an
additional
fifty-eight
pounds,
one
and
threepence,
and
all
he’s
been
talking
about
since
I
got
back
has
been
ruin
and
the
sinister
trend
of
socialistic
legislation
and
what
will
become
of
us
all.”
I
could
readily
believe
it.
This
Tom
has
a
peculiarity
I’ve
noticed
in
other
very
oofy
men.
Nick
him
for
the
paltriest
sum,
and
he
lets
out
a
squawk
you
can
hear
at
Land’s
End.
He
has
the
stuff
in
gobs,
but
he
hates
giving
up.
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