Right Ho, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) 📗

as Tuppy and Angela are concerned, we may say with confidence that everything will shortly be hotsy-totsy once more. And what an agreeable thought that is, Jeeves.”

“Very true, sir.”

“If there is one thing that gives me the pip, it is two loving hearts being estranged.”

“I can readily appreciate the fact, sir.”

I placed the stub of my gasper in the ash tray and lit another, to indicate that that completed Chapter I.

“Right ho, then. So much for the western front. We now turn to the eastern.”

“Sir?”

“I speak in parables, Jeeves. What I mean is, we now approach the matter of Gussie and Miss Bassett.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here, Jeeves, more direct methods are required. In handling the case of Augustus Fink-Nottle, we must keep always in mind the fact that we are dealing with a poop.”

“A sensitive plant would, perhaps, be a kinder expression, sir.”

“No, Jeeves, a poop. And with poops one has to employ the strong, forceful, straightforward policy. Psychology doesn’t get you anywhere. You, if I may remind you without wounding your feelings, fell into the error of mucking about with psychology in connection with this Fink-Nottle, and the result was a washout. You attempted to push him over the line by rigging him out in a Mephistopheles costume and sending him off to a fancy-dress ball, your view being that scarlet tights would embolden him. Futile.”

“The matter was never actually put to the test, sir.”

“No. Because he didn’t get to the ball. And that strengthens my argument. A man who can set out in a cab for a fancy-dress ball and not get there is manifestly a poop of no common order. I don’t think I have ever known anybody else who was such a dashed silly ass that he couldn’t even get to a fancy-dress ball. Have you, Jeeves?”

“No, sir.”

“But don’t forget this, because it is the point I wish, above all, to make: Even if Gussie had got to that ball; even if those scarlet tights, taken in conjunction with his horn-rimmed spectacles, hadn’t given the girl a fit of some kind; even if she had rallied from the shock and he had been able to dance and generally hobnob with her; even then your efforts would have been fruitless, because, Mephistopheles costume or no Mephistopheles costume, Augustus Fink-Nottle would never have been able to summon up the courage to ask her to be his. All that would have resulted would have been that she would have got that lecture on newts a few days earlier. And why, Jeeves? Shall I tell you why?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because he would have been attempting the hopeless task of trying to do the thing on orange juice.”

“Sir?”

“Gussie is an orange-juice addict. He drinks nothing else.”

“I was not aware of that, sir.”

“I have it from his own lips. Whether from some hereditary taint, or because he promised his mother he wouldn’t, or simply because he doesn’t like the taste of the stuff, Gussie Fink-Nottle has never in the whole course of his career pushed so much as the simplest gin and tonic over the larynx. And he expects⁠—this poop expects, Jeeves⁠—this wabbling, shrinking, diffident rabbit in human shape expects under these conditions to propose to the girl he loves. One hardly knows whether to smile or weep, what?”

“You consider total abstinence a handicap to a gentleman who wishes to make a proposal of marriage, sir?”

The question amazed me.

“Why, dash it,” I said, astounded, “you must know it is. Use your intelligence, Jeeves. Reflect what proposing means. It means that a decent, self-respecting chap has got to listen to himself saying things which, if spoken on the silver screen, would cause him to dash to the box-office and demand his money back. Let him attempt to do it on orange juice, and what ensues? Shame seals his lips, or, if it doesn’t do that, makes him lose his morale and start to babble. Gussie, for example, as we have seen, babbles of syncopated newts.”

“Palmated newts, sir.”

“Palmated or syncopated, it doesn’t matter which. The point is that he babbles and is going to babble again, if he has another try at it. Unless⁠—and this is where I want you to follow me very closely, Jeeves⁠—unless steps are taken at once through the proper channels. Only active measures, promptly applied, can provide this poor, pusillanimous poop with the proper pep. And that is why, Jeeves, I intend tomorrow to secure a bottle of gin and lace his luncheon orange juice with it liberally.”

“Sir?”

I clicked the tongue.

“I have already had occasion, Jeeves,” I said rebukingly, “to comment on the way you say ‘Well, sir’ and ‘Indeed, sir?’ I take this opportunity of informing you that I object equally strongly to your ‘Sir?’ pure and simple. The word seems to suggest that in your opinion I have made a statement or mooted a scheme so bizarre that your brain reels at it. In the present instance, there is absolutely nothing to say ‘Sir?’ about. The plan I have put forward is entirely reasonable and icily logical, and should excite no sirring whatsoever. Or don’t you think so?”

“Well, sir⁠—”

“Jeeves!”

“I beg your pardon, sir. The expression escaped me inadvertently. What I intended to say, since you press me, was that the action which you propose does seem to me somewhat injudicious.”

“Injudicious? I don’t follow you, Jeeves.”

“A certain amount of risk would enter into it, in my opinion, sir. It is not always a simple matter to gauge the effect of alcohol on a subject unaccustomed to such stimulant. I have known it to have distressing results in the case of parrots.”

“Parrots?”

“I was thinking of an incident of my earlier life, sir, before I entered your employment. I was in the service of the late Lord Brancaster at the time, a gentleman who owned a parrot to which he was greatly devoted, and one day the bird chanced to be lethargic, and his lordship, with the kindly intention of restoring it to its customary animation, offered it a portion of seed cake