Right Ho, Jeeves

And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. “That’s right,” said Tuppy. “Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too.” “Then he can go jolly fast now,” said Aunt Dahlia with animation. “He can’t go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on.” I found speech: “But I haven’t ridden for years.” “Then it’s high time you began again.” “I’ve probably forgotten how to ride.” “You’ll soon get the knack after you’ve taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way.” “But it’s miles to Kingham.” “So the sooner you’re off, the better.” “But----” “Bertie, dear.” “But, dash it----” “Bertie, darling.” “Yes, but dash it----” “Bertie, my sweet.” And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. “So, Jeeves,” I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, “this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----”