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and went to the open window to inspect the day.
“In the spring, Jeeves, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove.” “So I have been informed, sir.”
The effect she had on me whenever she appeared was to make me want to slide into a cellar and lie low till they blew the All- Clear.
“Who is it?” I would have said it long before, but the shock had made me swallow a bit of roll the wrong way, and I had only just finished turning purple and trying to get a bit of air back into the old windpipe. “Who is it?”
He clasped my hand silently, then chuckled like the last drop of water going down the waste-pipe in a bath.
She had a penetrating sort of laugh. Rather like a train going into a tunnel.
I was interrupted in my meditations by a noise like the Scotch express going under a bridge.
“I have a particular dislike for cats.
I didn’t laugh, but I distinctly heard a couple of my floating ribs part from their moorings under the strain.
It sounded as though all the cats in London, assisted by delegates from outlying suburbs, had got together to settle their differences once for all.
“I fancy, sir,” said Jeeves respectfully, “that the animals may have become somewhat exhilarated as the result of having discovered the fish under Mr. Wooster’s bed.”
I was about fed up with the whole thing. I mean, cats in your bedroom—a bit thick, what? I didn’t know how the dickens they had got in, but I was jolly well resolved that they weren’t going to stay picknicking there any longer.
all that was left of the mob-scene was the head of a whacking big fish, lying on the carpet and staring up at me in a rather austere sort of way, as if it wanted a written explanation and apology.
“Would you care to view the remains?” He seemed all broken up when he saw the wreckage.
Cyril Bassington-Bassington
He would seem from contemporary accounts to have blown in one morning at seven-forty-five, that being the ghastly sort of hour they shoot you off the liner in New York.
For until I have had my early cup of tea and have brooded on life for a bit absolutely undisturbed, I’m not much of a lad for the merry chit-chat.
He lugged them out of the drawer as if he were a vegetarian fishing a caterpillar out of the salad.
“Arrested! What for?” “He did not favour me with his confidence in that respect, sir.”
but the next few minutes were a bit exciting. I take it that Cyril must have made a dive for the infant. Anyway, the air seemed pretty well congested with arms and legs and things. Something bumped into the Wooster waistcoat just around the third button, and I collapsed on to the settee and rather lost interest in things for the moment.
Small, shrivelled chap. Looks like a haddock with lung-trouble.
I’ve found, as a general rule in life, that the thingsPg you think are going to be the scaliest nearly always turn out not so bad after all; but it wasn’t that way with Bingo’s tea-party.
Comrade Butt looked like one of the things that come out of dead trees after the rain;
as for Charlotte, she seemed to take me straight into another and a dreadful world. It wasn’t that she was exactly bad- looking. In fact, if she had knocked off starchy foods and done Swedish exercises for a bit, she might have been quite tolerable. But there was too much of her. Billowy curves. Well-nourished, perhaps, expresses it best.
to imagine a horse was the real goods when it couldn’t trot the length of its stable without getting its legs crossed and sitting down to rest.
A dashed pretty and lively and attractive girl, mind you, but full of ideals and all that.
it was a jolly fine exhibition. She opened her mouth and eyes pretty wide and let her jaw drop sideways, and managed to look so like a dyspeptic calf that I recognised the symptoms immediately.
“What the devil does it matter what birds?” said young Bingo, with some asperity. “Any birds. The birds round about here. You don’t expect me to specify them by their pet names, do you? I tell you, Bertie, it hit me hard at first, very hard.”
Jeeves coughed one soft, low, gentle cough like a sheep with a blade of grass stuck in its throat, and then stood gazing serenely at the landscape.
It sounded like about six hundred pigs having their tails twisted simultaneously,
looking more or less like the spot marked with a cross where the accident happened.
“This club,” I said, “is the limit.” “It is the eel’s eyebrows,” agreed young Bingo. “I believe that old boy over by the window has been dead three days, but I don’t like to mention it to anyone.”
“Mr. Little is certainly warm-hearted, sir.” “Warm-hearted! I should think he has to wear asbestos vests.
He mused awhile and got through a slab of cold guinea hen before replying. He toyed with the book, and it fell open at page two hundred and fifteen. I couldn’t remember what was on page two hundred and fifteen, but it must have been something tolerably zippy, for his expression changed and he gazed up at me with misty eyes, as if he’d taken a shade too much mustard with his last bite of ham.
