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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
83
If
ever
a
chap
wanted
the
clarion
note,
it
looked
as
if
it
was
this
Fink-Nottle.
In
the
general
exodus
of
mourners,
however,
I
lost
sight
of
him,
and,
owing
to
the
fact
that
Aunt
Dahlia
roped
me
in
for
a
game
of
backgammon,
it
was
not
immediately
that
I
was
able
to
institute
a
search.
But
after
we
had
been
playing
for
a
while,
the
butler
came
in
and
asked
her
if
she
would
speak
to
Anatole,
so
I
managed
to
get
away.
And
some
ten
minutes
later,
having
failed
to
find
scent
in
the
house,
I
started
to
throw
out
the
drag-net
through
the
grounds,
and
flushed
him
in
the
rose
garden.
He
was
smelling
a
rose
at
the
moment
in
a
limp
sort
of
way,
but
removed
the
beak
as
I
approached.
“Well,
Gussie,”
I
said.
I
had
beamed
genially
upon
him
as
I
spoke,
such
being
my
customary
policy
on
meeting
an
old
pal;
but
instead
of
beaming
back
genially,
he
gave
me
a
most
unpleasant
look.
His
attitude
perplexed
me.
It
was
as
if
he
were
not
glad
to
see
Bertram.
For
a
moment
he
stood
letting
this
unpleasant
look
play
upon
me,
as
it
were,
and
then
he
spoke.
“You
and
your
‘Well,
Gussie’!”
He
said
this
between
clenched
teeth,
always
an
unmatey
thing
to
do,
and
I
found
myself
more
fogged
than
ever.
“How
do
you
mean--me
and
my
‘Well,
Gussie’?”
“I
like
your
nerve,
coming
bounding
about
the
place,
saying
‘Well,
Gussie.’
That’s
about
all
the
‘Well,
Gussie’
I
shall
require
from
you,
Wooster.
And
it’s
no
good
looking
like
that.
You
know
what
I
mean.
That
damned
prize-giving!
It
was
a
dastardly
act
to
crawl
out
as
you
did
and
shove
it
off
on
to
me.
I
will
not
mince
my
words.
It
was
the
act
of
a
hound
and
a
stinker.”
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