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Brewster lay a long knife, and beside the knife lay the handsomely framed masterpiece of J. B. Wheeler's fiancee, Miss Alice Wigmore. Archie stared at this collection dumbly. "Oh, what-ho!" he observed at length, feebly. A distinct chill manifested itself in the region of Archie's spine. This could mean only one thing. His fears had been realised.
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. "What-ho, Gussie," I said.
"What-ho, me bhoy," he roared, "and how's me natty Matty the natest foightin' man in E Troop, which is sayin' in all the Dhraghoons, which is sayin' in all the Arrmy! How's Matty?" "Extant," replied Dam. "How's Shocky, the biggest liar in the same?" As he extended his hand it was noticeable that it was much smaller than the hand of the smaller man to whom it was offered.
Triffitt recognized him as a fellow-scribe, one of the youthful bloods of an opposition journal, whom he sometimes met on the cricket-field; he also remembered that he had caught a glimpse of him in the Coroner's Court, and he hastened to make room for him. "Hullo!" said Triffitt. "What-ho!" responded the pink young gentleman.
'What-ho, put in Elizabeth. 'Now let me show you the mistake under which you are labouring. It is true my name is William, but William is a common name. I have remarked, indeed, that the world is pretty full of Williams. Miss Warrington was in no way referring to me. 'I don't think, commented Elizabeth. 'Evidently you don't, I said severely, 'or you would not make such absurd statements.
"It's all I want of it for a bit, any way," Rowsell muttered, pushing his way along the quay. "If there's any of you for a drink, I'm your man. What-ho, Nichols? Lethbridge?" Lethbridge muttered something and turned away. Nichols, too, declined. "I am not sure, Job Rowsell," the latter declared, "that I like your money nor the way you earn it." Job Rowsell stopped for a minute.
It made a semicircular sweep, scattering a group of people, and two young gentlemen of the Royal Naval Air Service sprang down and shouted "What-ho!" very cheerily to two other young gentlemen in naval uniforms who shouted back "Cheer-o!" from the table under my balcony.
I had only just time to shove the jug behind the photograph of Uncle Tom on the mantelpiece before the door opened and in came Gussie, curveting like a circus horse. "What-ho, Bertie," he said. "What-ho, what-ho, what-ho, and again what-ho. What a beautiful world this is, Bertie. One of the nicest I ever met." I stared at him, speechless.
But, I say, tell me, isn't the deceased a great artist, then? He came curveting in here with his chest out and started to slate my masterpiece, so I naturally said, "What-ho! 'Tis a genius!" Isn't he? 'He can't sell his pictures anywhere. He lives on the little he can get from illustrating advertisements. And I t-taunt 'Please! said Beverley, apprehensively. She recovered herself with a gulp.
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