Right Ho, Jeeves

RIGHT HO, JEEVES
By
P. G. WODEHOUSE
1922

To
RAYMOND NEEDHAM, K.C.
WITH AFFECTION AND ADMIRATION

-1-
"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