Right Ho, Jeeves Read Online Free PDF Page A

that you will eventually learn to love this mess-jacket, Jeeves.”
    “I fear not, sir.”
    I gave it up. It is never any use trying to reason with Jeeves on these occasions. “Pig-headed” is the word that springs to the lips. One sighs and passes on.
    “Well, anyway, returning to the agenda, I can’t go down to Brinkley Court or anywhere else yet awhile. That’s final. I’ll tell you what, Jeeves. Give me form and pencil, and I’ll wire her that I’ll be with her some time next week or the week after. Dash it all, she ought to be able to hold out without me for a few days. It only requires will power.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Right ho, then. I’ll wire ‘Expect me tomorrow fortnight’ or words to some such effect. That ought to meet the case. Then if you will toddle round the corner and send it off, that will be that.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    And so the long day wore on till it was time for me to dress for Pongo’s party.
    Pongo had assured me, while chatting of the affair on the previous night, that this birthday binge of his was to be on a scale calculated to stagger humanity, and I must say I have participated in less fruity functions. It was well after four when I got home, and by that time I was about ready to turn in. I can just remember groping for the bed and crawling into it, and it seemed to me that the lemon had scarcely touched the pillow before I was aroused by the sound of the door opening.
    I was barely ticking over, but I contrived to raise an eyelid.
    “Is that my tea, Jeeves?”
    “No, sir. It is Mrs. Travers.”
    And a moment later there was a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and the relative had crossed the threshold at fifty m.p.h. under her own steam.

    -4-
    It has been well said of Bertram Wooster that, while no one views his flesh and blood with a keener and more remorselessly critical eye, he is nevertheless a man who delights in giving credit where credit is due. And if you have followed these memoirs of mine with the proper care, you will be aware that I have frequently had occasion to emphasise the fact that Aunt Dahlia is all right.
    She is the one, if you remember, who married old Tom Travers _en secondes noces_, as I believe the expression is, the year Bluebottle won the Cambridgeshire, and once induced me to write an article on What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing for that paper she runs—_Milady’s Boudoir_. She is a large, genial soul, with whom it is a pleasure to hob-nob. In her spiritual make-up there is none of that subtle gosh-awfulness which renders such an exhibit as, say, my Aunt Agatha the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all. I have the highest esteem for Aunt Dahlia, and have never wavered in my cordial appreciation of her humanity, sporting qualities and general good-eggishness.
    This being so, you may conceive of my astonishment at finding her at my bedside at such an hour. I mean to say, I’ve stayed at her place many a time and oft, and she knows my habits. She is well aware that until I have had my cup of tea in the morning, I do not receive. This crashing in at a moment when she knew that solitude and repose were of the essence was scarcely, I could not but feel, the good old form.
    Besides, what business had she being in London at all? That was what I asked myself. When a conscientious housewife has returned to her home after an absence of seven weeks, one does not expect her to start racing off again the day after her arrival. One feels that she ought to be sticking round, ministering to her husband, conferring with the cook, feeding the cat, combing and brushing the Pomeranian—in a word, staying put. I was more than a little bleary-eyed, but I endeavoured, as far as the fact that my eyelids were more or less glued together would permit, to give her an austere and censorious look.
    She didn’t seem to get it.
    “Wake up, Bertie, you old ass!” she cried, in a voice that hit me between the eyebrows and went out at the back of my