Not a successful interview

     He had never, he realized, been exactly what you might call sanguine when making his way to the Emsworth Arms to plead with Lord Tilbury to act like a sportsman and a gentleman. All the ruling of the form-book, he knew, was against him. And yet he had nursed, despite the whisperings of Reason, a sort of thin, sickly hope. This hope the proprietor of the Mammoth had slain dead within five minutes of his arrival.

    When Monty had claimed consideration on the ground that it was through no fault of his own that he was not charging in, manuscript in hand, Lord Tilbury had remained mute and stony. When he had gone on to point out that Pilbeam could not have got the thing but for him, Lord Tilbury had uttered a sharp, sneering snort. And when, as happened a little farther on in the scene, Monty had called his former employer a fat, double-crossing wart-hog, the latter had terminated the interview by walking away with his hands under his coat-tails.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Not fond of pigs

He had only himself to blame - that was what made it all the more bitter. If he had not so casually given his casting vote in favour of shifting this infernal pig to new quarters, he would not now have been faced by a problem which every moment seemed to become more difficult of situation.

 For Pilbeam was afraid of pigs. He seemed to remember having read somewhere that if you go into a pig's sty and the pig doesn't now you it comes for you like a tiger and chews you to ribbons. Greedy though he was for Lord Tilbury's gold, something told him that never, no matter how glittering this reward, would he be able to bring himself to go into that sty in quest of the manuscript, guarded as it now was by this ravening beast. The Prodigal Son might have mixed with these animals on a clubby basis, but Percy Pilbeam knew himself to be incapable of imitating him.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Champagne for a snake

 Beach withdrew to execute the commission. His demeanour, as he passed from the hall, was downcast. There in a nutshell, he was feeling, you had the tragedy of a butler's life. His not to reason why; his not to discriminate between the deserving and the undeserving; his but to go and bring bottles of champagne to marcelled-haired snakes to whom he would greatly have deserved to supply straight cyanide.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Beach is NOT pleased

     "Her ladyship is expressing a desire to see you, sir," said Beach, regarding him with restrained horror and loathing. 

    The recent exchange of remarks between Monty Bodkin and the Hon. Galahadd in his presence had confirmed the butler in his view that of all the human serpents that ever wriggled their way into a respectable castle this private investigator was the worst. Knowing what the manuscript of the Reminiscences meant to Mr. Ronald and his betrothed, Beach, had he been younger and slimmer and in better condition and not a butler, could - for two pins - have taken Percy Pilbeam's unpleasant neck in his hands and twisted it into a lover's knot.

    His physique and his circumstances being as they were, he merely delivered the message he had been instructed to deliver. As far as any hostile demonstration was concerned, he had to be content with letting his lip curl.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

A man set up for a fall

 In his bearing, as he hurried along the path that skirted the kitchen garden - in the oily smirk beneath his repellent moustache, in the jaunty tilt of his snub nose, even in the terraced sweep of the brilliantine swamps of his corrugated hair - there was the look of a man who is congratulating himself on a neat bit of work. Brains, reflected Percy Pilbeam - that was what you needed in this life. Brains and the ability to seize your opportunity when it was offered to you.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Not a good choice

 Pausing halfway to the door, the Hon. Galahad saw that a peculiar expression had come into his nephew's face. An expression a little like that of a young Hindu fakir who, having settled himself on his first bed of spikes, is beginning to wish that he had chosen one of the easier religions.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Come on, thunderstorms!

     "Thunderstorms often upset people. Are you afraid of thunder?"

    "Oh, no."

    "Lots of girls are. I knew one once who, whenever there was a thunderstorm, used to fling her arms around the neck of the nearest man, hugging and kissing him till it was all over. Purely nervous reaction, of course, but you should have seen the young fellows flocking round as soon as the sky began to get a little overcast. Gladys, her name was. Gladys Twistleton. Beautiful girl with large, melting eyes. Married a fellow in the Blues called Harringay. I'm told that the way he used to clear the drawing-room during the early years of their married life at the first suspicion of a rumble was a sight to be seen and remembered."

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)