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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
71
But
after
I
had
been
splashing
about
in
the
porcelain
for
a
bit,
composure
began
to
return.
I
have
always
found
that
in
moments
of
heart-bowed-downness
there
is
nothing
that
calms
the
bruised
spirit
like
a
good
go
at
the
soap
and
water.
I
don’t
say
I
actually
sang
in
the
tub,
but
there
were
times
when
it
was
a
mere
spin
of
the
coin
whether
I
would
do
so
or
not.
The
spiritual
anguish
induced
by
that
tactless
speech
had
become
noticeably
lessened.
The
discovery
of
a
toy
duck
in
the
soap
dish,
presumably
the
property
of
some
former
juvenile
visitor,
contributed
not
a
little
to
this
new
and
happier
frame
of
mind.
What
with
one
thing
and
another,
I
hadn’t
played
with
toy
ducks
in
my
bath
for
years,
and
I
found
the
novel
experience
most
invigorating.
For
the
benefit
of
those
interested,
I
may
mention
that
if
you
shove
the
thing
under
the
surface
with
the
sponge
and
then
let
it
go,
it
shoots
out
of
the
water
in
a
manner
calculated
to
divert
the
most
careworn.
Ten
minutes
of
this
and
I
was
enabled
to
return
to
the
bedchamber
much
more
the
old
merry
Bertram.
Jeeves
was
there,
laying
out
the
dinner
disguise.
He
greeted
the
young
master
with
his
customary
suavity.
“Good
evening,
sir.”
I
responded
in
the
same
affable
key.
“Good
evening,
Jeeves.”
“I
trust
you
had
a
pleasant
drive,
sir.”
“Very
pleasant,
thank
you,
Jeeves.
Hand
me
a
sock
or
two,
will
you?”
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