The Right Hon. was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotton to say “When!”

Jeeves and the Yule-Tide Spirit (short story)

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More from P.G. Wodehouse

Unseen, in the background, Fate was quietly slipping the lead into the boxing-glove.

Very Good, Jeeves (1930)

There is no doubt that Jeeves’s pick-me-up will produce immediate results in anything short of an Egyptian mummy.

I turned to Aunt Agatha, whose demeanor was rather like that of one who, picking daisies on the railway, has just caught the Down express in the small of the back.

She’s one of those soppy girls, riddled from head to foot with whimsy. She holds the view that the stars are God’s daisy chain, that rabbits are gnomes in attendance on the Fairy Queen, and that every time a fairy blows its wee nose a baby is born, which, as we know, is not the case. She’s a drooper.

You wouldn’t think it to look at him, because he’s small and shrimplike and never puts on weight, but Gussie loves food. Watching him tucking into his rations at the Drones, a tapeworm would raise its hat respectfully, knowing that it was in the presence of a master.