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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
76
“Oh,
no,
sir.”
“Well,
that’s
what
it
sounds
like.
Why
don’t
you
think
this
scheme
will
work?”
“I
fear
Miss
Angela
will
merely
attribute
Mr.
Glossop’s
abstinence
to
indigestion,
sir.”
I
hadn’t
thought
of
that,
and
I
must
confess
it
shook
me
for
a
moment.
Then
I
recovered
myself.
I
saw
what
was
at
the
bottom
of
all
this.
Mortified
by
the
consciousness
of
his
own
ineptness--or
ineptitude--the
fellow
was
simply
trying
to
hamper
and
obstruct.
I
decided
to
knock
the
stuffing
out
of
him
without
further
preamble.
“Oh?”
I
said.
“You
do,
do
you?
Well,
be
that
as
it
may,
it
doesn’t
alter
the
fact
that
you’ve
put
out
the
wrong
coat.
Be
so
good,
Jeeves,”
I
said,
indicating
with
a
gesture
the
gent’s
ordinary
dinner
jacket
or
smoking,
as
we
call
it
on
the
Côte
d’Azur,
which
was
suspended
from
the
hanger
on
the
knob
of
the
wardrobe,
“as
to
shove
that
bally
black
thing
in
the
cupboard
and
bring
out
my
white
mess-jacket
with
the
brass
buttons.”
He
looked
at
me
in
a
meaning
manner.
And
when
I
say
a
meaning
manner,
I
mean
there
was
a
respectful
but
at
the
same
time
uppish
glint
in
his
eye
and
a
sort
of
muscular
spasm
flickered
across
his
face
which
wasn’t
quite
a
quiet
smile
and
yet
wasn’t
quite
not
a
quiet
smile.
Also
the
soft
cough.
“I
regret
to
say,
sir,
that
I
inadvertently
omitted
to
pack
the
garment
to
which
you
refer.”
The
vision
of
that
parcel
in
the
hall
seemed
to
rise
before
my
eyes,
and
I
exchanged
a
merry
wink
with
it.
I
may
even
have
hummed
a
bar
or
two.
I’m
not
quite
sure.
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