Right Ho, Jeeves

“I am sorry.” “What’s the good of being sorry?” “I acted for what I deemed the best.” “Another time try acting for the worst. Then we may possibly escape with a mere flesh wound.” “Uncle Tom’s not feeling too bucked about it all, you say?” “He’s groaning like a lost soul. And any chance I ever had of getting that money out of him has gone.” I stroked the chin thoughtfully. There was, I had to admit, reason in what she said. None knew better than I how terrible a blow the passing of Anatole would be to Uncle Tom. I have stated earlier in this chronicle that this curious object of the seashore with whom Aunt Dahlia has linked her lot is a bloke who habitually looks like a pterodactyl that has suffered, and the reason he does so is that all those years he spent in making millions in the Far East put his digestion on the blink, and the only cook that has ever been discovered capable of pushing food into him without starting something like Old Home Week in Moscow under the third waistcoat button is this uniquely gifted Anatole. Deprived of Anatole’s services, all he was likely to give the wife of his b. was a dirty look. Yes, unquestionably, things seemed to have struck a somewhat rocky patch, and I must admit that I found myself, at moment of going to press, a little destitute of constructive ideas. Confident, however, that these would come ere long, I kept the stiff upper lip.