“He’s a vegetarian, you know. He must have been digging into a steak or something. Call up a doctor!”
“I hardly think it will be necessary, sir. If you would take his lordship’s legs, while I—”
“Great Scot, Jeeves! You don’t think—he can’t be—”
“I am inclined to think so, sir.”
And, by Jove, he was right! Once on the right track, you couldn’t mistake it. Motty was under the surface.
It was the deuce of a shock.
“You never can tell, Jeeves!”
“Very seldom, sir.”
“Remove the eye of authority and where are you?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Where is my wandering boy tonight and all that sort of thing, what?”
“It would seem so, sir.”
“Well, we had better bring him in, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
So we lugged him in, and Jeeves put him to bed, and I lit a cigarette and sat down to think the thing over. I had a kind of foreboding. It seemed to me that I had let myself in for something pretty rocky.
Next morning, after I had sucked down a thoughtful cup of tea, I went into Motty’s room to investigate. I expected to find the fellow a wreck, but there he was, sitting up in bed, quite chirpy, reading Gingery Stories .