- Libros en formato MOBI -
My
man Jeeves
Jeeves—my man,
you know—is really a most extraordinary chap. So
capable. Honestly, I shouldn't know what to do
without him. On broader lines he's like those
chappies who sit peering sadly over the marble
battlements at the Pennsylvania Station in the
place marked "Inquiries." You know the Johnnies
I mean. You go up to them and say: "When's the
next train for Melonsquashville, Tennessee?" and
they reply, without stopping to think,
"Two-forty-three, track ten, change at San
Francisco." And they're right every time. Well,
Jeeves gives you just the same impression of
omniscience.
As an instance of what I mean, I remember
meeting Monty Byng in Bond Street one morning,
looking the last word in a grey check suit, and
I felt I should never be happy till I had one
like it. I dug the address of the tailors out of
him, and had them working on the thing inside
the hour...
![](../../../imagenes/10_jun/imagen00.gif) Right
Ho, Jeeves
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...
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