Right Ho, Jeeves

“Yes, sir.” “He knew exactly what he had to do. I had coached him thoroughly in lines and business.” “Yes, sir. So Mr. Fink-Nottle informed me.” “Well, then----” “I regret to say, sir, that there was a slight hitch.” “You mean, something went wrong?” “Yes, sir.” I could not fathom. The brain seemed to be tottering on its throne. “But how could anything go wrong? She loves him, Jeeves.” “Indeed, sir?” “She definitely told me so. All he had to do was propose.” “Yes sir.” “Well, didn’t he?” “No, sir.” “Then what the dickens did he talk about?” “Newts, sir.” “Newts?” “Yes, sir.” “Newts?” “Yes, sir.” “But why did he want to talk about newts?” “He did not want to talk about newts, sir. As I gather from Mr. Fink-Nottle, nothing could have been more alien to his plans.” I simply couldn’t grasp the trend. “But you can’t force a man to talk about newts.” “Mr. Fink-Nottle was the victim of a sudden unfortunate spasm of nervousness, sir. Upon finding himself alone with the young lady, he admits to having lost his morale. In such circumstances, gentlemen frequently talk at random, saying the first thing that chances to enter their heads. This, in Mr. Fink-Nottle’s case, would seem to have been the newt, its treatment in sickness and in health.” The scales fell from my eyes. I understood. I had had the same sort of thing happen to me in moments of crisis. I remember once detaining a dentist with the drill at one of my lower bicuspids and holding him up for nearly ten minutes with a story about a Scotchman, an Irishman, and a Jew. Purely automatic. The more he tried to jab, the more I said “Hoots, mon,” “Begorrah,” and “Oy, oy”. When one loses one’s nerve, one simply babbles.