Sunday, April 13, 2008

The finest comedic prose of all time

From the ages of 9 to 14, I averaged reading 1 full book every 2 days. Yeah, I was the kid who leased library cards from others to get around the 5-book-at-one-time restriction on borrowing books.

It started with the usual middle-school staple of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. I have read almost all, including the casefiles. Agatha Christie was completely devoured starting around 11 and serious thrillers from Alistair Maclean and Jack Higgins at around 13. After finishing all from Maclean, and pestering the librarian (good old Mrs. Susheela) for some new authors, I was handed perhaps the most humorous book of all time - "Right Ho Jeeves" by P.G.Wodehouse. After that, I took a lifetime membership to the P.G.Wodehouse-is-da-god club.

For your reading pleasure, here is the best part from the book. Bertie Wooster and Jeeves (Bertie's butler) have loaded the very timid and nervous Gussie Fink-Nottle (Bertie's cousin) with whiskey to spruce up Gussie for a speech at the Market Snodsbury grammar school's prize-giving ceremony. The scene is the hall in the school where the speech is going to take place. Also in attendance in the audience are Bertie's aunt Dahlia Travers and Uncle Tom Travers.


The Grammar School at Market Snodsbury had, I understood, been built
somewhere in the year 1416, and, as with so many of these ancient
foundations, there still seemed to brood over its Great Hall, where the
afternoon's festivities were to take place, not a little of the fug of
the centuries. It was the hottest day of the summer, and though somebody
had opened a tentative window or two, the atmosphere remained distinctive
and individual.

In this hall the youth of Market Snodsbury had been eating its daily

lunch for a matter of five hundred years, and the flavour lingered. The
air was sort of heavy and languorous, if you know what I mean, with the
scent of Young England and boiled beef and carrots.

Aunt Dahlia, who was sitting with a bevy of the local nibs in the second

row, sighted me as I entered and waved to me to join her, but I was too
smart for that. I wedged myself in among the standees at the back,
leaning up against a chap who, from the aroma, might have been a corn
chandler or something on that order. The essence of strategy on these
occasions is to be as near the door as possible.

The hall was gaily decorated with flags and coloured paper, and the eye

was further refreshed by the spectacle of a mixed drove of boys, parents,
and what not, the former running a good deal to shiny faces and Eton
collars, the latter stressing the black-satin note rather when female,
and looking as if their coats were too tight, if male. And presently
there was some applause--sporadic, Jeeves has since told me it was--and I
saw Gussie being steered by a bearded bloke in a gown to a seat in the
middle of the platform.

And I confess that as I beheld him and felt that there but for the grace

of God went Bertram Wooster, a shudder ran through the frame. It all
reminded me so vividly of the time I had addressed that girls' school.

Of course, looking at it dispassionately, you may say that for horror and

peril there is no comparison between an almost human audience like the
one before me and a mob of small girls with pigtails down their backs,
and this, I concede, is true. Nevertheless, the spectacle was enough to
make me feel like a fellow watching a pal going over Niagara Falls in a
barrel, and the thought of what I had escaped caused everything for a
moment to go black and swim before my eyes.

When I was able to see clearly once more, I perceived that Gussie was now

seated. He had his hands on his knees, with his elbows out at right
angles, like a nigger minstrel of the old school about to ask Mr. Bones
why a chicken crosses the road, and he was staring before him with a
smile so fixed and pebble-beached that I should have thought that anybody
could have guessed that there sat one in whom the old familiar juice was
plashing up against the back of the front teeth.

In fact, I saw Aunt Dahlia, who, having assisted at so many hunting

dinners in her time, is second to none as a judge of the symptoms, give a
start and gaze long and earnestly. And she was just saying something to
Uncle Tom on her left when the bearded bloke stepped to the footlights
and started making a speech. From the fact that he spoke as if he had a
hot potato in his mouth without getting the raspberry from the lads in
the ringside seats, I deduced that he must be the head master.

With his arrival in the spotlight, a sort of perspiring resignation

seemed to settle on the audience. Personally, I snuggled up against the
chandler and let my attention wander. The speech was on the subject of
the doings of the school during the past term, and this part of a
prize-giving is always apt rather to fail to grip the visiting stranger.
I mean, you know how it is. You're told that J.B. Brewster has won an
Exhibition for Classics at Cat's, Cambridge, and you feel that it's one
of those stories where you can't see how funny it is unless you really
know the fellow. And the same applies to G. Bullett being awarded the
Lady Jane Wix Scholarship at the Birmingham College of Veterinary

In fact, I and the corn chandler, who was looking a bit fagged I thought,

as if he had had a hard morning chandling the corn, were beginning to
doze lightly when things suddenly brisked up, bringing Gussie into the
picture for the first time.

"Today," said the bearded bloke, "we are all happy to welcome as the

guest of the afternoon Mr. Fitz-Wattle----"

At the beginning of the address, Gussie had subsided into a sort of

daydream, with his mouth hanging open. About half-way through, faint
signs of life had begun to show. And for the last few minutes he had been
trying to cross one leg over the other and failing and having another
shot and failing again. But only now did he exhibit any real animation.
He sat up with a jerk.

"Fink-Nottle," he said, opening his eyes.



"I should say Fink-Nottle."

"Of course you should, you silly ass," said Gussie genially. "All right,
get on with it."

And closing his eyes, he began trying to cross his legs again.

I could see that this little spot of friction had rattled the bearded

bloke a bit. He stood for a moment fumbling at the fungus with a
hesitating hand. But they make these head masters of tough stuff. The
weakness passed. He came back nicely and carried on.

"We are all happy, I say, to welcome as the guest of the afternoon Mr.

Fink-Nottle, who has kindly consented to award the prizes. This task, as
you know, is one that should have devolved upon that well-beloved and
vigorous member of our board of governors, the Rev. William Plomer, and
we are all, I am sure, very sorry that illness at the last moment should
have prevented him from being here today. But, if I may borrow a familiar
metaphor from the--if I may employ a homely metaphor familiar to you
all--what we lose on the swings we gain on the roundabouts."

He paused, and beamed rather freely, to show that this was comedy. I

could have told the man it was no use. Not a ripple. The corn chandler
leaned against me and muttered "Whoddidesay?" but that was all.

It's always a nasty jar to wait for the laugh and find that the gag

hasn't got across. The bearded bloke was visibly discomposed. At that,
however, I think he would have got by, had he not, at this juncture,
unfortunately stirred Gussie up again.

"In other words, though deprived of Mr. Plomer, we have with us this

afternoon Mr. Fink-Nottle. I am sure that Mr. Fink-Nottle's name is one
that needs no introduction to you. It is, I venture to assert, a name
that is familiar to us all."

"Not to you," said Gussie.

And the next moment I saw what Jeeves had meant when he had described him

as laughing heartily. "Heartily" was absolutely the _mot juste_. It
sounded like a gas explosion.

"You didn't seem to know it so dashed well, what, what?" said Gussie.

And, reminded apparently by the word "what" of the word "Wattle," he
repeated the latter some sixteen times with a rising inflection.

"Wattle, Wattle, Wattle," he concluded. "Right-ho. Push on."

But the bearded bloke had shot his bolt. He stood there, licked at last;

and, watching him closely, I could see that he was now at the crossroads.
I could spot what he was thinking as clearly as if he had confided it to
my personal ear. He wanted to sit down and call it a day, I mean, but the
thought that gave him pause was that, if he did, he must then either
uncork Gussie or take the Fink-Nottle speech as read and get straight on
to the actual prize-giving.

It was a dashed tricky thing, of course, to have to decide on the spur of

the moment. I was reading in the paper the other day about those birds
who are trying to split the atom, the nub being that they haven't the
foggiest as to what will happen if they do. It may be all right. On the
other hand, it may not be all right. And pretty silly a chap would feel,
no doubt, if, having split the atom, he suddenly found the house going up
in smoke and himself torn limb from limb.

So with the bearded bloke. Whether he was abreast of the inside facts in

Gussie's case, I don't know, but it was obvious to him by this time that
he had run into something pretty hot. Trial gallops had shown that Gussie
had his own way of doing things. Those interruptions had been enough to
prove to the perspicacious that here, seated on the platform at the big
binge of the season, was one who, if pushed forward to make a speech,
might let himself go in a rather epoch-making manner.

On the other hand, chain him up and put a green-baize cloth over him, and

where were you? The proceeding would be over about half an hour too soon.

It was, as I say, a difficult problem to have to solve, and, left to

himself, I don't know what conclusion he would have come to. Personally,
I think he would have played it safe. As it happened, however, the thing
was taken out of his hands, for at this moment, Gussie, having stretched
his arms and yawned a bit, switched on that pebble-beached smile again
and tacked down to the edge of the platform.

"Speech," he said affably.

He then stood with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, waiting

for the applause to die down.

It was some time before this happened, for he had got a very fine hand

indeed. I suppose it wasn't often that the boys of Market Snodsbury
Grammar School came across a man public-spirited enough to call their
head master a silly ass, and they showed their appreciation in no
uncertain manner. Gussie may have been one over the eight, but as far as
the majority of those present were concerned he was sitting on top of the

"Boys," said Gussie, "I mean ladies and gentlemen and boys, I do not

detain you long, but I suppose on this occasion to feel compelled to say
a few auspicious words; Ladies--and boys and gentlemen--we have all
listened with interest to the remarks of our friend here who forgot to
shave this morning--I don't know his name, but then he didn't know
mine--Fitz-Wattle, I mean, absolutely absurd--which squares things up a
bit--and we are all sorry that the Reverend What-ever-he-was-called should
be dying of adenoids, but after all, here today, gone tomorrow, and all
flesh is as grass, and what not, but that wasn't what I wanted to say.
What I wanted to say was this--and I say it confidently--without fear of
contradiction--I say, in short, I am happy to be here on this auspicious
occasion and I take much pleasure in kindly awarding the prizes,
consisting of the handsome books you see laid out on that table. As
Shakespeare says, there are sermons in books, stones in the running
brooks, or, rather, the other way about, and there you have it in a

It went well, and I wasn't surprised. I couldn't quite follow some of it,

but anybody could see that it was real ripe stuff, and I was amazed that
even the course of treatment he had been taking could have rendered so
normally tongue-tied a dumb brick as Gussie capable of it.

It just shows, what any member of Parliament will tell you, that if you

want real oratory, the preliminary noggin is essential. Unless pie-eyed,
you cannot hope to grip.

"Gentlemen," said Gussie, "I mean ladies and gentlemen and, of course,

boys, what a beautiful world this is. A beautiful world, full of
happiness on every side. Let me tell you a little story. Two Irishmen,
Pat and Mike, were walking along Broadway, and one said to the other,
'Begorrah, the race is not always to the swift,' and the other replied,
'Faith and begob, education is a drawing out, not a putting in.'"

I must say it seemed to me the rottenest story I had ever heard, and I

was surprised that Jeeves should have considered it worth while shoving
into a speech. However, when I taxed him with this later, he said that
Gussie had altered the plot a good deal, and I dare say that accounts for

At any rate, that was the _conte_ as Gussie told it, and when I say that

it got a very fair laugh, you will understand what a popular favourite he
had become with the multitude. There might be a bearded bloke or so on
the platform and a small section in the second row who were wishing the
speaker would conclude his remarks and resume his seat, but the audience
as a whole was for him solidly.

There was applause, and a voice cried: "Hear, hear!"

"Yes," said Gussie, "it is a beautiful world. The sky is blue, the birds

are singing, there is optimism everywhere. And why not, boys and ladies
and gentlemen? I'm happy, you're happy, we're all happy, even the meanest
Irishman that walks along Broadway. Though, as I say, there were two of
them--Pat and Mike, one drawing out, the other putting in. I should like
you boys, taking the time from me, to give three cheers for this
beautiful world. All together now."

Presently the dust settled down and the plaster stopped falling from the

ceiling, and he went on.

"People who say it isn't a beautiful world don't know what they are

talking about. Driving here in the car today to award the kind prizes, I
was reluctantly compelled to tick off my host on this very point. Old Tom
Travers. You will see him sitting there in the second row next to the
large lady in beige."

He pointed helpfully, and the hundred or so Market Snods-buryians who

craned their necks in the direction indicated were able to observe Uncle
Tom blushing prettily.

"I ticked him off properly, the poor fish. He expressed the opinion that

the world was in a deplorable state. I said, 'Don't talk rot, old Tom
Travers.' 'I am not accustomed to talk rot,' he said. 'Then, for a
beginner,' I said, 'you do it dashed well.' And I think you will admit,
boys and ladies and gentlemen, that that was telling him."

The audience seemed to agree with him. The point went big. The voice that

had said, "Hear, hear" said "Hear, hear" again, and my corn chandler
hammered the floor vigorously with a large-size walking stick.

"Well, boys," resumed Gussie, having shot his cuffs and smirked horribly,

"this is the end of the summer term, and many of you, no doubt, are
leaving the school. And I don't blame you, because there's a froust in
here you could cut with a knife. You are going out into the great world.
Soon many of you will be walking along Broadway. And what I want to
impress upon you is that, however much you may suffer from adenoids, you
must all use every effort to prevent yourselves becoming pessimists and
talking rot like old Tom Travers. There in the second row. The fellow
with a face rather like a walnut."

He paused to allow those wishing to do so to refresh themselves with

another look at Uncle Tom, and I found myself musing in some little
perplexity. Long association with the members of the Drones has put me
pretty well in touch with the various ways in which an overdose of the
blushful Hippocrene can take the individual, but I had never seen anyone
react quite as Gussie was doing.

There was a snap about his work which I had never witnessed before, even

in Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps on New Year's Eve.

Jeeves, when I discussed the matter with him later, said it was something

to do with inhibitions, if I caught the word correctly, and the
suppression of, I think he said, the ego. What he meant, I gathered, was
that, owing to the fact that Gussie had just completed a five years'
stretch of blameless seclusion among the newts, all the goofiness which
ought to have been spread out thin over those five years and had been
bottled up during that period came to the surface on this occasion in a
lump--or, if you prefer to put it that way, like a tidal wave.

There may be something in this. Jeeves generally knows.

Anyway, be that as it may, I was dashed glad I had had the shrewdness to

keep out of that second row. It might be unworthy of the prestige of a
Wooster to squash in among the proletariat in the standing-room-only
section, but at least, I felt, I was out of the danger zone. So
thoroughly had Gussie got it up his nose by now that it seemed to me that
had he sighted me he might have become personal about even an old school

"If there's one thing in the world I can't stand," proceeded Gussie,

"it's a pessimist. Be optimists, boys. You all know the difference
between an optimist and a pessimist. An optimist is a man who--well, take
the case of two Irishmen walking along Broadway. One is an optimist and
one is a pessimist, just as one's name is Pat and the other's Mike....
Why, hullo, Bertie; I didn't know you were here."

Too late, I endeavoured to go to earth behind the chandler, only to

discover that there was no chandler there. Some appointment, suddenly
remembered--possibly a promise to his wife that he would be home to
tea--had caused him to ooze away while my attention was elsewhere,
leaving me right out in the open.

Between me and Gussie, who was now pointing in an offensive manner, there

was nothing but a sea of interested faces looking up at me.

"Now, there," boomed Gussie, continuing to point, "is an instance of what

I mean. Boys and ladies and gentlemen, take a good look at that object
standing up there at the back--morning coat, trousers as worn, quiet grey
tie, and carnation in buttonhole--you can't miss him. Bertie Wooster,
that is, and as foul a pessimist as ever bit a tiger. I tell you I
despise that man. And why do I despise him? Because, boys and ladies and
gentlemen, he is a pessimist. His attitude is defeatist. When I told him
I was going to address you this afternoon, he tried to dissuade me. And
do you know why he tried to dissuade me? Because he said my trousers
would split up the back."

The cheers that greeted this were the loudest yet. Anything about

splitting trousers went straight to the simple hearts of the young
scholars of Market Snodsbury Grammar School. Two in the row in front of
me turned purple, and a small lad with freckles seated beside them asked
me for my autograph.

"Let me tell you a story about Bertie Wooster."

A Wooster can stand a good deal, but he cannot stand having his name

bandied in a public place. Picking my feet up softly, I was in the very
process of executing a quiet sneak for the door, when I perceived that
the bearded bloke had at last decided to apply the closure.

Why he hadn't done so before is beyond me. Spell-bound, I take it. And,

of course, when a chap is going like a breeze with the public, as Gussie
had been, it's not so dashed easy to chip in. However, the prospect of
hearing another of Gussie's anecdotes seemed to have done the trick.
Rising rather as I had risen from my bench at the beginning of that
painful scene with Tuppy in the twilight, he made a leap for the table,
snatched up a book and came bearing down on the speaker.

He touched Gussie on the arm, and Gussie, turning sharply and seeing a

large bloke with a beard apparently about to bean him with a book, sprang
back in an attitude of self-defence.

"Perhaps, as time is getting on, Mr. Fink-Nottle, we had better----"

"Oh, ah," said Gussie, getting the trend. He relaxed. "The prizes, eh? Of

course, yes. Right-ho. Yes, might as well be shoving along with it.
What's this one?"

"Spelling and dictation--P.K. Purvis," announced the bearded bloke.

"Spelling and dictation--P.K. Purvis," echoed Gussie, as if he were

calling coals. "Forward, P.K. Purvis."

Now that the whistle had been blown on his speech, it seemed to me that

there was no longer any need for the strategic retreat which I had been
planning. I had no wish to tear myself away unless I had to. I mean, I
had told Jeeves that this binge would be fraught with interest, and it
was fraught with interest. There was a fascination about Gussie's methods
which gripped and made one reluctant to pass the thing up provided
personal innuendoes were steered clear of. I decided, accordingly, to
remain, and presently there was a musical squeaking and P.K. Purvis
climbed the platform.

The spelling-and-dictation champ was about three foot six in his

squeaking shoes, with a pink face and sandy hair. Gussie patted his hair.
He seemed to have taken an immediate fancy to the lad.

"You P.K. Purvis?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"It's a beautiful world, P.K. Purvis."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Ah, you've noticed it, have you? Good. You married, by any chance?"

"Sir, no, sir."

"Get married, P.K. Purvis," said Gussie earnestly. "It's the only life

... Well, here's your book. Looks rather bilge to me from a glance at the
title page, but, such as it is, here you are."

P.K. Purvis squeaked off amidst sporadic applause, but one could not fail

to note that the sporadic was followed by a rather strained silence. It
was evident that Gussie was striking something of a new note in Market
Snodsbury scholastic circles. Looks were exchanged between parent and
parent. The bearded bloke had the air of one who has drained the bitter
cup. As for Aunt Dahlia, her demeanour now told only too clearly that her
last doubts had been resolved and her verdict was in. I saw her whisper
to the Bassett, who sat on her right, and the Bassett nodded sadly and
looked like a fairy about to shed a tear and add another star to the
Milky Way.

Gussie, after the departure of P.K. Purvis, had fallen into a sort of

daydream and was standing with his mouth open and his hands in his
pockets. Becoming abruptly aware that a fat kid in knickerbockers was at
his elbow, he started violently.

"Hullo!" he said, visibly shaken. "Who are you?"

"This," said the bearded bloke, "is R.V. Smethurst."

"What's he doing here?" asked Gussie suspiciously.

"You are presenting him with the drawing prize, Mr. Fink-Nottle."

This apparently struck Gussie as a reasonable explanation. His face


"That's right, too," he said.... "Well, here it is, cocky. You off?" he

said, as the kid prepared to withdraw.

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Wait, R.V. Smethurst. Not so fast. Before you go, there is a question I

wish to ask you."

But the beard bloke's aim now seemed to be to rush the ceremonies a bit.

He hustled R.V. Smethurst off stage rather like a chucker-out in a pub
regretfully ejecting an old and respected customer, and starting paging
G.G. Simmons. A moment later the latter was up and coming, and conceive
my emotion when it was announced that the subject on which he had clicked
was Scripture knowledge. One of us, I mean to say.

G.G. Simmons was an unpleasant, perky-looking stripling, mostly front

teeth and spectacles, but I gave him a big hand. We Scripture-knowledge
sharks stick together.

Gussie, I was sorry to see, didn't like him. There was in his manner, as

he regarded G.G. Simmons, none of the chumminess which had marked it
during his interview with P.K. Purvis or, in a somewhat lesser degree,
with R.V. Smethurst. He was cold and distant.

"Well, G.G. Simmons."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"What do you mean--sir, yes, sir? Dashed silly thing to say. So you've

won the Scripture-knowledge prize, have you?"
"Sir, yes, sir."

"Yes," said Gussie, "you look just the sort of little tick who would. And

yet," he said, pausing and eyeing the child keenly, "how are we to know
that this has all been open and above board? Let me test you, G.G.
Simmons. What was What's-His-Name--the chap who begat Thingummy? Can you
answer me that, Simmons?"

"Sir, no, sir."

Gussie turned to the bearded bloke.

"Fishy," he said. "Very fishy. This boy appears to be totally lacking in

Scripture knowledge."

The bearded bloke passed a hand across his forehead.

"I can assure you, Mr. Fink-Nottle, that every care was taken to ensure a

correct marking and that Simmons outdistanced his competitors by a wide

"Well, if you say so," said Gussie doubtfully. "All right, G.G. Simmons,

take your prize."

"Sir, thank you, sir."

"But let me tell you that there's nothing to stick on side about in

winning a prize for Scripture knowledge. Bertie Wooster----"

I don't know when I've had a nastier shock. I had been going on the

assumption that, now that they had stopped him making his speech,
Gussie's fangs had been drawn, as you might say. To duck my head down and
resume my edging toward the door was with me the work of a moment.

"Bertie Wooster won the Scripture-knowledge prize at a kids' school we

were at together, and you know what he's like. But, of course, Bertie
frankly cheated. He succeeded in scrounging that Scripture-knowledge
trophy over the heads of better men by means of some of the rawest and
most brazen swindling methods ever witnessed even at a school where such
things were common. If that man's pockets, as he entered the
examination-room, were not stuffed to bursting-point with lists of the
kings of Judah----"

I heard no more. A moment later I was out in God's air, fumbling with a

fevered foot at the self-starter of the old car.

The engine raced. The clutch slid into position. I tooted and drove off.

My ganglions were still vibrating as I ran the car into the stables of

Brinkley Court, and it was a much shaken Bertram who tottered up to his
room to change into something loose. Having donned flannels, I lay down
on the bed for a bit, and I suppose I must have dozed off, for the next
thing I remember is finding Jeeves at my side.

I sat up. "My tea, Jeeves?"

"No, sir. It is nearly dinner-time."

The mists cleared away.

"I must have been asleep."

"Yes, sir."

"Nature taking its toll of the exhausted frame."

"Yes, sir."

"And enough to make it."

"Yes, sir."

"And now it's nearly dinner-time, you say? All right. I am in no mood for

dinner, but I suppose you had better lay out the clothes."

"It will not be necessary, sir. The company will not be dressing tonight.

A cold collation has been set out in the dining-room."

"Why's that?"

"It was Mrs. Travers's wish that this should be done in order to minimize

the work for the staff, who are attending a dance at Sir Percival
Stretchley-Budd's residence tonight."

"Of course, yes. I remember. My Cousin Angela told me. Tonight's the

night, what? You going, Jeeves?"

"No, sir. I am not very fond of this form of entertainment in the rural

districts, sir."

"I know what you mean. These country binges are all the same. A piano,

one fiddle, and a floor like sandpaper. Is Anatole going? Angela hinted

"Miss Angela was correct, sir. Monsieur Anatole is in bed."

"Temperamental blighters, these Frenchmen."

"Yes, sir."

There was a pause.

"Well, Jeeves," I said, "it was certainly one of those afternoons, what?"

"Yes, sir."

"I cannot recall one more packed with incident. And I left before the


"Yes, sir. I observed your departure."

"You couldn't blame me for withdrawing."

"No, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle had undoubtedly become embarrassingly


"Was there much more of it after I went?"

"No, sir. The proceedings terminated very shortly. Mr. Fink-Nottle's

remarks with reference to Master G.G. Simmons brought about an early

"But he had finished his remarks about G.G. Simmons."

"Only temporarily, sir. He resumed them immediately after your departure.

If you recollect, sir, he had already proclaimed himself suspicious of
Master Simmons's bona fides, and he now proceeded to deliver a violent
verbal attack upon the young gentleman, asserting that it was impossible
for him to have won the Scripture-knowledge prize without systematic
cheating on an impressive scale. He went so far as to suggest that Master
Simmons was well known to the police."

"Golly, Jeeves!"

"Yes, sir. The words did create a considerable sensation. The reaction of

those present to this accusation I should describe as mixed. The young
students appeared pleased and applauded vigorously, but Master Simmons's
mother rose from her seat and addressed Mr. Fink-Nottle in terms of
strong protest."

"Did Gussie seem taken aback? Did he recede from his position?"

"No, sir. He said that he could see it all now, and hinted at a guilty

liaison between Master Simmons's mother and the head master, accusing the
latter of having cooked the marks, as his expression was, in order to
gain favour with the former."

"You don't mean that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Egad, Jeeves! And then----"

"They sang the national anthem, sir."

"Surely not?"

"Yes, sir."

"At a moment like that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you were there and you know, of course, but I should have thought

the last thing Gussie and this woman would have done in the circs. would
have been to start singing duets."

"You misunderstand me, sir. It was the entire company who sang. The head

master turned to the organist and said something to him in a low tone.
Upon which the latter began to play the national anthem, and the
proceedings terminated."

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