Very Good, Jeeves!
P. G. Wodehouse
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“To dive into a Wodehouse novel is to swim in some of the most elegantly turned phrases in the English language.”―Ben Schott
Follow the adventures of Bertie Wooster and his gentleman’s gentleman, Jeeves, in this stunning new edition of one of the greatest comic short story collections in the English language. Whoever or whatever the cause of Bertie Wooster's consternation―Bobbie Wickham giving away his fierce Aunt Agatha's dog; getting into the bad books of Sir Roderick Glossop; attempting to scupper the unfortunate infatuation of his friend Tuppy for a robust opera singer―Jeeves can always be relied on tyo untangle the most ferocious of muddles. Even Bertie's.
he?’ ‘My old head master, Bertie,’ said Sippy. ‘Yes, but, my dear old soul—’ ‘Head master of my old school.’ He gazed at me in a distraught sort of way. ‘Good Lord! Can’t you understand the position?’ ‘Not by a jugful, laddie.’ Sippy sprang from his chair and took a turn or two up and down the carpet. ‘How do you feel,’ he said, ‘when you meet the head master of your old school?’ ‘I never do. He’s dead.’ ‘Well, I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel as if I were in the Lower Fourth again, and
choir surged round and sang carols outside the front door, and then somebody suggested a dance, and after that we hung around chatting of this and that, so that it wasn’t till past one that I got to my room. Allowing for everything, it didn’t seem that it was going to be safe to start my little expedition till half-past two at the earliest: and I’m bound to say that it was only the utmost resolution that kept me from snuggling into the sheets and calling it a day. I’m not much of a lad now for
late hours. However, by half-past two everything appeared to be quiet. I shook off the mists of sleep, grabbed the good old stick-and-needle and toddled off along the corridor. And presently, pausing outside the Moat Room, I turned the handle, found the door wasn’t locked, and went in. I suppose a burglar – I mean a real professional who works at the job six nights a week all the year round – gets so that finding himself standing in the dark in somebody else’s bedroom means absolutely nothing
come-back as come-backs go; but it was enough to show me that that was more or less that; and I beetled out with an aching heart. I headed for the garden, and I’m dashed if the first person I saw wasn’t young Bingo Little. Bingo Little and I have been pals practically from birth. Born in the same village within a couple of days of one another, we went through kindergarten, Eton, and Oxford together; and, grown to riper years we have enjoyed in the old metrop. full many a first-class binge in
banner with the strange device ‘Excelsior!’ I will say for that tree that it might have been placed there for the purpose. My views on the broad, general principle of leaping from branch to branch in a garden belonging to Aunt Agatha’s closest friend remained unaltered; but I had to admit that, if it was to be done, this was undoubtedly the tree to do it on. It was a cedar of sorts; and almost before I knew where I was, I was sitting on top of the world with the conservatory roof gleaming below