Leave it to Jeeves

by P.G. Wodehouse

I dare say there are fellows in the world—men of blood and iron, don't you know, and all that sort of thing—whom she couldn't intimidate; but if you're a chappie like me, fond of a quiet life, you simply curl into a ball when you see her coming, and hope for the best.

she would exert the full bent of her natural genius to make life a Hades for me.

A sort of bally freedom, if you know what I mean, that gets into your blood and bucks you up, and makes you feel that— God's in His Heaven: All's right with the world, and you don't care if you've got odd socks on.

It's a funny thing about looking for things. If you hunt for a needle in a haystack you don't find it. If you don't give a darn whether you ever see the needle or not it runs into you the first time you lean against the stack.

"Jeeves," I said that evening. "I'm getting a check suit like that one of Mr. Byng's." "Injudicious, sir," he said firmly. "It will not become you."

I was so darned sorry for poor old Corky that I hadn't the heart to touch my breakfast. I told Jeeves to drink it himself.

I'm not absolutely certain of my facts, but I rather fancy it's Shakespeare—or, if not, it's some equally brainy lad—who says that it's always just when a chappie is feeling particularly top-hole, and more than usually braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping.

She fitted into my biggest arm-chair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing arm-chairs tight about the hips that season.

I'm all for rational enjoyment and so forth, but I think a chappie makes himself conspicuous when he throws soft-boiled eggs at the electric fan.

Lady Malvern tried to freeze him with a look, but you can't do that sort of thing to Jeeves. He is look-proof.