Right Ho, Jeeves

“Jeeves,” said Gussie. “Sir?” said Jeeves. “Is that door locked, Jeeves?” “No, sir, but I will attend to the matter immediately.” Gussie sat down on the bed, and I thought for a moment that he was going to be in the mode by burying his face in his hands. However, he merely brushed a dead spider from his brow. “Have you locked the door, Jeeves?” “Yes, sir.” “Because you can never tell that that ghastly Glossop may not take it into his head to come----” The word “back” froze on his lips. He hadn’t got any further than a b-ish sound, when the handle of the door began to twist and rattle. He sprang from the bed, and for an instant stood looking exactly like a picture my Aunt Agatha has in her dining-room--The Stag at Bay--Landseer. Then he made a dive for the cupboard and was inside it before one really got on to it that he had started leaping. I have seen fellows late for the 9.15 move less nippily. I shot a glance at Jeeves. He allowed his right eyebrow to flicker slightly, which is as near as he ever gets to a display of the emotions. “Hullo?” I yipped. “Let me in, blast you!” responded Tuppy’s voice from without. “Who locked this door?” I consulted Jeeves once more in the language of the eyebrow. He raised one of his. I raised one of mine. He raised his other. I raised my other. Then we both raised both. Finally, there seeming no other policy to pursue, I flung wide the gates and Tuppy came shooting in.