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in the rôle of a vapid and frivolous wastrel.
Bingo Little. But how he came to be there was more than I could understand. Some time before, you see, he had married the celebrated authoress, Rosie M. Banks; and
‘Because, if your aunt supposed that I was a pal of yours, she would naturally sack me on the spot.’
the soup-and-fish
knee-deep in the bisque
the best of wives is apt to cut up rough if she finds that her husband has dropped six weeks’ housekeeping money on a single race. Isn’t that so, Jeeves?’
Kosy Komfort Kennels at Kingsbridge, Kent,
Bingo barked bleakly.
like a bull-dog that has been refused cake.
‘The trousers perhaps a half-inch higher,
One aims at the perfect butterfly effect.
‘There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter.’
my slice of cake, slipping from my nerveless fingers, fell to the ground and was wolfed by Aunt Agatha’s spaniel, Robert.
Mr Filmer is on the island in the middle of the lake.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Very good, sir.
one of the swans had recently nested on this island.’
‘Very good, sir.’
I rose like a rocketing pheasant,
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Don’t keep saying “Very good”.
There are no limits to Jeeves’s brain-power. He virtually lives on fish.’
‘Very good, sir.’
I am convinced that my boat was set adrift by the boy Thomas, my hostess’s son.’
Mr Filmer suspects young Thomas of doing exactly what he did do,
I had somehow become the possessor of a large china vase with crimson dragons on it.
And so the long day wore on.
‘Very good,
‘Very good,
‘Very...
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‘Very...
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I mean very good Jeeves, that will be...
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‘Mr Glossop is established in the Moat Room, sir.’
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pausing outside the Moat Room,
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whoever else the bloke in the bed might be, he was not young Tuppy.
‘The fact is, I thought you were Tuppy.’
What I mean to say is, I thought you were your nephew.’
‘My nephew and I changed rooms.
‘I should have thought that your man-servant would have informed you,’ said Sir Roderick,
That Jeeves had been aware all along that this old crumb would be the occupant of the bed which I was proposing to prod with darning-needles and had let me rush upon my doom without a word of warning was almost beyond belief.
gazing at the corpse of the hot-water bottle.
All the while I supposed he had been landing me in the soup, he had really been steering me away from it.
‘The second incident?’
pierced his hot-water bottle with some sharp instrument,
It was young Mr Glossop who did it.
Not being aware that his victim had been Sir Roderick.’
‘From Miss Wickham?’
But there is one exception to the general ghastliness—viz., my Aunt Dahlia. She married old Tom Travers the year Bluebottle won the Cambridgeshire, and is one of the best.
