Right Ho, Jeeves | Page 5

anybody with any pretensions to being the life and soul of
the party was accustomed to attend binges at the Casino in the ordinary
evening-wear trouserings topped to the north by a white mess-jacket
with brass buttons. And ever since I had stepped aboard the Blue Train
at Cannes station, I had been wondering on and off how mine would go
with Jeeves.
In the matter of evening costume, you see, Jeeves is hidebound and
reactionary. I had had trouble with him before about soft-bosomed
shirts. And while these mess-jackets had, as I say, been all the
rage--tout ce qu'il y a de chic--on the Côte d'Azur, I had never
concealed it from myself, even when treading the measure at the Palm
Beach Casino in the one I had hastened to buy, that there might be
something of an upheaval about it on my return.
I prepared to be firm.
"Yes, Jeeves?" I said. And though my voice was suave, a close
observer in a position to watch my eyes would have noticed a steely
glint. Nobody has a greater respect for Jeeves's intellect than I have, but
this disposition of his to dictate to the hand that fed him had got, I felt,
to be checked. This mess-jacket was very near to my heart, and I jolly
well intended to fight for it with all the vim of grand old Sieur de
Wooster at the Battle of Agincourt.
"Yes, Jeeves?" I said. "Something on your mind, Jeeves?"
"I fear that you inadvertently left Cannes in the possession of a coat
belonging to some other gentleman, sir."
I switched on the steely a bit more.

"No, Jeeves," I said, in a level tone, "the object under advisement is
mine. I bought it out there."
"You wore it, sir?"
"Every night."
"But surely you are not proposing to wear it in England, sir?"
I saw that we had arrived at the nub.
"Yes, Jeeves."
"But, sir----"
"You were saying, Jeeves?"
"It is quite unsuitable, sir."
"I do not agree with you, Jeeves. I anticipate a great popular success for
this jacket. It is my intention to spring it on the public tomorrow at
Pongo Twistleton's birthday party, where I confidently expect it to be
one long scream from start to finish. No argument, Jeeves. No
discussion. Whatever fantastic objection you may have taken to it, I
wear this jacket."
"Very good, sir."
He went on with his unpacking. I said no more on the subject. I had
won the victory, and we Woosters do not triumph over a beaten foe.
Presently, having completed my toilet, I bade the man a cheery farewell
and in generous mood suggested that, as I was dining out, why didn't he
take the evening off and go to some improving picture or something.
Sort of olive branch, if you see what I mean.
He didn't seem to think much of it.
"Thank you, sir, I will remain in."

I surveyed him narrowly.
"Is this dudgeon, Jeeves?"
"No, sir, I am obliged to remain on the premises. Mr. Fink-Nottle
informed me he would be calling to see me this evening."
"Oh, Gussie's coming, is he? Well, give him my love."
"Very good, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"And a whisky and soda, and so forth."
"Very good, sir."
"Right ho, Jeeves."
I then set off for the Drones.
At the Drones I ran into Pongo Twistleton, and he talked so much about
this forthcoming merry-making of his, of which good reports had
already reached me through my correspondents, that it was nearing
eleven when I got home again.
And scarcely had I opened the door when I heard voices in the
sitting-room, and scarcely had I entered the sitting-room when I found
that these proceeded from Jeeves and what appeared at first sight to be
the Devil.
A closer scrutiny informed me that it was Gussie Fink-Nottle, dressed
as Mephistopheles.

-2-
"What-ho, Gussie," I said.

You couldn't have told it from my manner, but I was feeling more than
a bit nonplussed. The spectacle before me was enough to nonplus
anyone. I mean to say, this Fink-Nottle, as I remembered him, was the
sort of shy, shrinking goop who might have been expected to shake like
an aspen if invited to so much as a social Saturday afternoon at the
vicarage. And yet here he was, if one could credit one's senses, about to
take part in a fancy-dress ball, a form of entertainment notoriously a
testing experience for the toughest.
And he was attending that fancy-dress ball, mark you--not, like every
other well-bred Englishman, as a Pierrot, but as Mephistopheles--this
involving, as I need scarcely stress, not only scarlet tights but a pretty
frightful false beard.
Rummy, you'll admit. However, one masks one's feelings. I betrayed
no vulgar astonishment, but,