Right Ho, Jeeves

“No, thanks, old man. I like leaning on it. It seems to rest the spine.” “In about two seconds,” said Tuppy, “I’m going to kick your spine up through the top of your head.” I raised the eyebrows. Not much good, of course, in that light, but it seemed to help the general composition. “Is this Hildebrand Glossop speaking?” I said. He replied that it was, adding that if I wanted to make sure I might move a few feet over in his direction. He also called me an opprobrious name. I raised the eyebrows again. “Come, come, Tuppy, don’t let us let this little chat become acrid. Is ‘acrid’ the word I want?” “I couldn’t say,” he replied, beginning to sidle round the bench. I saw that anything I might wish to say must be said quickly. Already he had sidled some six feet. And though, by dint of sidling, too, I had managed to keep the bench between us, who could predict how long this happy state of affairs would last? I came to the point, therefore. “I think I know what’s on your mind, Tuppy,” I said. “If you were in those bushes during my conversation with the recent Angela, I dare say you heard what I was saying about you.” “I did.” “I see. Well, we won’t go into the ethics of the thing. Eavesdropping, some people might call it, and I can imagine stern critics drawing in the breath to some extent. Considering it--I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Tuppy--but considering it un-English. A bit un-English, Tuppy, old man, you must admit.”