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Right Ho, Jeeves


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"Jeeves," I said, "may I speak frankly?"

"Certainly, sir."

"What I have to say may wound you."

"Not at all, sir."

"Well, then----"

No--wait. Hold the line a minute. I've gone off the rails.

I don't know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always
come up against when I'm telling a story is this dashed difficult problem
of where to begin it. It's a thing you don't want to go wrong over,
because one false step and you're sunk. I mean, if you fool about too
long at the start, trying to establish atmosphere, as they call it, and
all that sort of rot, you fail to grip and the customers walk out on you.

Get off the mark, on the other hand, like a scalded cat, and your public
is at a loss. It simply raises its eyebrows, and can't make out what
you're talking about.

And in opening my report of the complex case of Gussie Fink-Nottle,
Madeline Bassett, my Cousin Angela, my Aunt Dahlia, my Uncle Thomas,
young Tuppy Glossop and the cook, Anatole, with the above spot of
dialogue, I see that I have made the second of these two floaters.

I shall have to hark back a bit. And taking it for all in all and
weighing this against that, I suppose the affair may be said to have had
its inception, if inception is the word I want, with that visit of mine
to Cannes. If I hadn't gone to Cannes, I shouldn't have met the Bassett
or bought that white mess jacket, and Angela wouldn't have met her shark,
and Aunt Dahlia wouldn't have played baccarat.

Yes, most decidedly, Cannes was the _point d'appui._

Right ho, then. Let me marshal my facts.

I went to Cannes--leaving Jeeves behind, he having intimated that he did
not wish to miss Ascot--round about the beginning of June. With me
travelled my Aunt Dahlia and her daughter Angela. Tuppy Glossop, Angela's
betrothed, was to have been of the party, but at the last moment couldn't
get away. Uncle Tom, Aunt Dahlia's husband, remained at home, because he
can't stick the South of France at any price.

So there you have the layout--Aunt Dahlia, Cousin Angela and self off to
Cannes round about the beginning of June.

All pretty clear so far, what?

We stayed at Cannes about two months, and except for the fact that Aunt
Dahlia lost her shirt at baccarat and Angela nearly got inhaled by a
shark while aquaplaning, a pleasant time was had by all.

On July the twenty-fifth, looking bronzed and fit, I accompanied aunt and
child back to London. At seven p.m. on July the twenty-sixth we alighted
at Victoria. And at seven-twenty or thereabouts we parted with mutual
expressions of esteem--they to shove off in Aunt Dahlia's car to Brinkley
Court, her place in Worcestershire, where they were expecting to
entertain Tuppy in a day or two; I to go to the flat, drop my luggage,
clean up a bit, and put on the soup and fish preparatory to pushing round
to the Drones for a bite of dinner.

And it was while I was at the flat, towelling the torso after a
much-needed rinse, that Jeeves, as we chatted of this and that--picking
up the threads, as it were--suddenly brought the name of Gussie
Fink-Nottle into the conversation.

As I recall it, the dialogue ran something as follows:

SELF: Well, Jeeves, here we are, what?

JEEVES: Yes, sir.

SELF: I mean to say, home again.

JEEVES: Precisely, sir.

SELF: Seems ages since I went away.

JEEVES: Yes, sir.

SELF: Have a good time at Ascot?

JEEVES: Most agreeable, sir.

SELF: Win anything?

JEEVES: Quite a satisfactory sum, thank you, sir.

SELF: Good. Well, Jeeves, what news on the Rialto? Anybody been phoning
or calling or anything during my abs.?

JEEVES: Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir, has been a frequent caller.

I stared. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that I gaped.

"Mr. Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't mean Mr. Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes, sir."

"But Mr. Fink-Nottle's not in London?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm blowed."

And I'll tell you why I was blowed. I found it scarcely possible to give
credence to his statement. This Fink-Nottle, you see, was one of those
freaks you come across from time to time during life's journey who can't
stand London. He lived year in and year out, covered with moss, in a
remote village down in Lincolnshire, never coming up even for the Eton
and Harrow match. And when I asked him once if he didn't find the time
hang a bit heavy on his hands, he said, no, because he had a pond in his
garden and studied the habits of newts.

I couldn't imagine what could have brought the chap up to the great city.
I would have been prepared to bet that as long as the supply of newts
didn't give out, nothing could have shifted him from that village of his.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"You got the name correctly? Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it's the most extraordinary thing. It must be five years since he
was in London. He makes no secret of the fact that the place gives him
the pip. Until now, he has always stayed glued to the country, completely
surrounded by newts."


"Newts, Jeeves. Mr. Fink-Nottle has a strong newt complex. You must have
heard of newts. Those little sort of lizard things that charge about in


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