Right Ho, Jeeves

It wasn’t as if he and I were in any way bosom. We had seen a lot of each other at one time, of course, but in the last two years I hadn’t had so much as a post card from him. I put all this to Jeeves: “Odd, his coming to me. Still, if he did, he did. No argument about that. It must have been a nasty jar for the poor perisher when he found I wasn’t here.” “No, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle did not call to see you, sir.” “Pull yourself together, Jeeves. You’ve just told me that this is what he has been doing, and assiduously, at that.” “It was I with whom he was desirous of establishing communication, sir.” “You? But I didn’t know you had ever met him.” “I had not had that pleasure until he called here, sir. But it appears that Mr. Sipperley, a fellow student with whom Mr. Fink-Nottle had been at the university, recommended him to place his affairs in my hands.” The mystery had conked. I saw all. As I dare say you know, Jeeves’s reputation as a counsellor has long been established among the cognoscenti, and the first move of any of my little circle on discovering themselves in any form of soup is always to roll round and put the thing up to him. And when he’s got A out of a bad spot, A puts B on to him. And then, when he has fixed up B, B sends C along. And so on, if you get my drift, and so forth.