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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
73
I
had
to
let
go
of
the
cravat
in
order
to
raise
a
hand.
I
was
shocked.
“Don’t
tell
me
you
were
contemplating
descending
to
that
old
he-saved-her-from-drowning
gag?
I
am
surprised,
Jeeves.
Surprised
and
pained.
When
I
was
discussing
the
matter
with
Aunt
Dahlia
on
my
arrival,
she
said
in
a
sniffy
sort
of
way
that
she
supposed
I
was
going
to
shove
my
Cousin
Angela
into
the
lake
and
push
Tuppy
in
to
haul
her
out,
and
I
let
her
see
pretty
clearly
that
I
considered
the
suggestion
an
insult
to
my
intelligence.
And
now,
if
your
words
have
the
meaning
I
read
into
them,
you
are
mooting
precisely
the
same
drivelling
scheme.
Really,
Jeeves!”
“No,
sir.
Not
that.
But
the
thought
did
cross
my
mind,
as
I
walked
in
the
grounds
and
passed
the
building
where
the
fire-bell
hangs,
that
a
sudden
alarm
of
fire
in
the
night
might
result
in
Mr.
Glossop
endeavouring
to
assist
Miss
Angela
to
safety.”
I
shivered.
“Rotten,
Jeeves.”
“Well,
sir----”
“No
good.
Not
a
bit
like
it.”
“I
fancy,
sir----”
“No,
Jeeves.
No
more.
Enough
has
been
said.
Let
us
drop
the
subj.”
I
finished
tying
the
tie
in
silence.
My
emotions
were
too
deep
for
speech.
I
knew,
of
course,
that
this
man
had
for
the
time
being
lost
his
grip,
but
I
had
never
suspected
that
he
had
gone
absolutely
to
pieces
like
this.
Remembering
some
of
the
swift
ones
he
had
pulled
in
the
past,
I
shrank
with
horror
from
the
spectacle
of
his
present
ineptitude.
Or
is
it
ineptness?
I
mean
this
frightful
disposition
of
his
to
stick
straws
in
his
hair
and
talk
like
a
perfect
ass.
It
was
the
old,
old
story,
I
supposed.
A
man’s
brain
whizzes
along
for
years
exceeding
the
speed
limit,
and
something
suddenly
goes
wrong
with
the
steering-gear
and
it
skids
and
comes
a
smeller
in
the
ditch.
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