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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
8
“Precisely,
sir.”
I
mused.
“Well,
I
suppose
this
was
inevitable,
Jeeves.
I
wouldn’t
have
thought
that
this
Fink-Nottle
would
ever
have
fallen
a
victim
to
the
divine
p,
but,
if
he
has,
no
wonder
he
finds
the
going
sticky.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Look
at
the
life
he’s
led.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“I
don’t
suppose
he
has
spoken
to
a
girl
for
years.
What
a
lesson
this
is
to
us,
Jeeves,
not
to
shut
ourselves
up
in
country
houses
and
stare
into
glass
tanks.
You
can’t
be
the
dominant
male
if
you
do
that
sort
of
thing.
In
this
life,
you
can
choose
between
two
courses.
You
can
either
shut
yourself
up
in
a
country
house
and
stare
into
tanks,
or
you
can
be
a
dasher
with
the
sex.
You
can’t
do
both.”
“No,
sir.”
I
mused
once
more.
Gussie
and
I,
as
I
say,
had
rather
lost
touch,
but
all
the
same
I
was
exercised
about
the
poor
fish,
as
I
am
about
all
my
pals,
close
or
distant,
who
find
themselves
treading
upon
Life’s
banana
skins.
It
seemed
to
me
that
he
was
up
against
it.
I
threw
my
mind
back
to
the
last
time
I
had
seen
him.
About
two
years
ago,
it
had
been.
I
had
looked
in
at
his
place
while
on
a
motor
trip,
and
he
had
put
me
right
off
my
feed
by
bringing
a
couple
of
green
things
with
legs
to
the
luncheon
table,
crooning
over
them
like
a
young
mother
and
eventually
losing
one
of
them
in
the
salad.
That
picture,
rising
before
my
eyes,
didn’t
give
me
much
confidence
in
the
unfortunate
goof’s
ability
to
woo
and
win,
I
must
say.
Especially
if
the
girl
he
had
earmarked
was
one
of
these
tough
modern
thugs,
all
lipstick
and
cool,
hard,
sardonic
eyes,
as
she
probably
was.
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