from
Right Ho, Jeeves chapter 3:
The first of the telegrams arrived shortly after noon, and Jeeves brought
it in with the before-luncheon snifter. It was from my Aunt Dahlia,
operating from Market Snodsbury, a small town of sorts a mile or two
along the main road as you leave her country seat.
It ran as follows:
Come at once. Travers.
And when I say it puzzled me like the dickens, I am understating it; if
anything. As mysterious a communication, I considered, as was ever
flashed over the wires. I studied it in a profound reverie for the best
part of two dry Martinis and a dividend. I read it backwards. I read it
forwards. As a matter of fact, I have a sort of recollection of even
smelling it. But it still baffled me.
Consider the facts, I mean. It was only a few hours since this aunt and I
had parted, after being in constant association for nearly two months.
And yet here she was--with my farewell kiss still lingering on her cheek,
so to speak--pleading for another reunion. Bertram Wooster is not
accustomed to this gluttonous appetite for his society. Ask anyone who
knows me, and they will tell you that after two months of my company,
what the normal person feels is that that will about do for the present.
Indeed, I have known people who couldn't stick it out for more than a few
days.
Before sitting down to the well-cooked, therefore, I sent this reply:
Perplexed. Explain. Bertie.
To this I received an answer during the after-luncheon sleep:
What on earth is there to be perplexed about, ass? Come at once.
Travers.
Three cigarettes and a couple of turns about the room, and I had my
response ready:
How do you mean come at once? Regards. Bertie.
I append the comeback:
I mean come at once, you maddening half-wit. What did you think I meant?
Come at once or expect an aunt's curse first post tomorrow. Love.
Travers.
I then dispatched the following message, wishing to get everything quite
clear:
When you say "Come" do you mean "Come to Brinkley Court"? And when you
say "At once" do you mean "At once"? Fogged. At a loss. All the best.
Bertie.
I sent this one off on my way to the Drones, where I spent a restful
afternoon throwing cards into a top-hat with some of the better element.
Returning in the evening hush, I found the answer waiting for me:
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. It doesn't matter whether you
understand or not. You just come at once, as I tell you, and for heaven's
sake stop this back-chat. Do you think I am made of money that I can
afford to send you telegrams every ten minutes. Stop being a fathead and
come immediately. Love. Travers.
It was at this point that I felt the need of getting a second opinion. I
pressed the bell.
"Jeeves," I said, "a V-shaped rumminess has manifested itself from the
direction of Worcestershire. Read these," I said, handing him the papers
in the case.
He scanned them.
"What do you make of it, Jeeves?"
"I think Mrs. Travers wishes you to come at once, sir."
"You gather that too, do you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I put the same construction on the thing. But why, Jeeves? Dash it all,
she's just had nearly two months of me."
"Yes, sir."
"And many people consider the medium dose for an adult two days."
"Yes, sir. I appreciate the point you raise. Nevertheless, Mrs. Travers
appears very insistent. I think it would be well to acquiesce in her
wishes."
