Right Ho, Jeeves

I surveyed him narrowly. “Is this dudgeon, Jeeves?” “No, sir, I am obliged to remain on the premises. Mr. Fink-Nottle informed me he would be calling to see me this evening.” “Oh, Gussie’s coming, is he? Well, give him my love.” “Very good, sir.” “Yes, sir.” “And a whisky and soda, and so forth.” “Very good, sir.” “Right ho, Jeeves.” I then set off for the Drones. At the Drones I ran into Pongo Twistleton, and he talked so much about this forthcoming merry-making of his, of which good reports had already reached me through my correspondents, that it was nearing eleven when I got home again. And scarcely had I opened the door when I heard voices in the sitting-room, and scarcely had I entered the sitting-room when I found that these proceeded from Jeeves and what appeared at first sight to be the Devil. A closer scrutiny informed me that it was Gussie Fink-Nottle, dressed as Mephistopheles. -2- “What-ho, Gussie,” I said. You couldn’t have told it from my manner, but I was feeling more than a bit nonplussed. The spectacle before me was enough to nonplus anyone. I mean to say, this Fink-Nottle, as I remembered him, was the sort of shy, shrinking goop who might have been expected to shake like an aspen if invited to so much as a social Saturday afternoon at the vicarage. And yet here he was, if one could credit one’s senses, about to take part in a fancy-dress ball, a form of entertainment notoriously a testing experience for the toughest.