Taking a few days off from blogging

 Soon to return.

Because I said so!

     "Don't speak in that casual way, as if you supposed that it was perfectly natural that you would make a good impression upon him. Mr. Filmer is a serious-minded man of high character and purpose, and you are just the type vapid and frivolous wastrel against which he is most likely to be prejudiced.

    Hard words, of course, from one's own flesh and blood, but well in keeping with past form.

    "You will endeavour, therefore, while you are here not to display yourself in the role of a vapid and frivolous wastrel. In the first place, you will give up smoking during your visit."

    "Oh, I say!"

    "Mr. Filmer is president of the Anti-Tobacco League. Nor will you drink alcoholic stimulants."

    "Oh, dash it!"

    "And you will kindly exclude from your conversation all that is suggestive of the bar, the billiards-room, and the stage-door. Mr. Filmer will judge you largely by your conversation." I rose to a point of order.

    "Yes, but why have I got to make an impression on this - on Mr. Filmer?"

    "Because," said the old relative, giving me the eye, "I particularly wish it."

    Not, perhaps, a notably snappy 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.

(from Very Good, Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Jolly old Uncle George

     "Has it ever occurred to you, Bertie," she said, "that your Uncle George may be psychic?" She seemed to be changing the subject.

    "Psychic?"

    "Do you think it is possible that he could see things not visible to the normal eye?"

    I thought it was dashed possible, if not probable. I don't know if you've ever met my Uncle George. He's a festive old egg who wanders from club to club continually having a couple with other festive old eggs. When he heaves in sight, waiters brace themselves up and the wine-steward toys with his corkscrew. It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.

(from The Inimitable Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

A nice, comfortable relationship

     The five-ten was late as usual, and everybody was dressing for dinner when I arrived at the Hall. It was only by getting into my evening things in record time ana taking the stairs to the dining-room in a couple of bounds that I managed to dead-heat with the soup. I slid into the vacant chair, and found that I was sitting next to old Wickhammersley's youngest daughter, Cynthia.

    "Oh, hallo, old thing," I said.

    Great pals we've always been. In fact, there was a time when I had an idea I was in love with Cynthia. However, it blew over. A dashed pretty and lively and attractive girl, mind you, but full of ideals and all that. I may be wronging her, but I have an idea that she's the sort of girl who would want a fellow to carve out a career and what not. I know I've heard here speak favourably of Napoleon. So what with one thing and another the jolly old frenzy sort of petered out, and now we're just pals. I think she's a topper, and she thinks me next door to a looney, so everything's nice and matey.

(from The Inimitable Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Fish-face

     I then perceived hat the stout stripling had trickled into the room after Jeeves. He was standing near the door looking at Cyril as if his worst fears had been realized. There was a bit of a silence. The child remained there, drinking Cyril in for about half a minute; then he gave his verdict.

    "Fish-face!"

    "Eh? What?" said Cyril. The child, who had evidently been taught at his mother's knee to speak the truth, made his meaning a trifle clearer.

    "You've a face like a fish!"

    He spoke as if Cyril was more to be pitied than censured, which I am bound to say I thought rather decent and broad-minded of him. I don't mind admitting that, whenever I looked at Cyril's face, I always had a feeling that he couldn't have got that way without its being mostly his own fault. I found myself warming to this child. Absolutely, don't you know. I liked his conversation.

(from The Inimitable Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Waukeesi

 This term is found in The Inimitable Jeeves, first published by P. G. Wodehouse in 1923. I found an explanation of it on the blog "The Annotated Wodehouse."

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The Waukeezi Shoe Company Limited of Northampton sold shoes and boots during the first half of the 20th century. Readers unaccustomed to mentally pronouncing ‘walk’ in British fashion may not immediately realize the brand name is a play on ‘walk easy.’ Or at least, I didn’t. This may be both the only time Wodehouse spelled the brand name Waukeezi with a Y, and the only time he felt it necessary to add the classifying noun ‘shoe.’ He more usually preferred to use the brand name as a metonym for foot (or feet): ‘Put the old Waukeesi down with a bang’ as Wodehouse wrote in the Bertie Wooster story ‘Jeeves and the Chump Cyril’ or, more commonly, ‘pick up the old waukeesies,’ (meaning ‘let's go; hurry up’). So far as I have been able to determine, Wodehouse always spelled the brand name with an S, never a Z (as used by the actual brand).

Confounded letters of introduction!

 You know, the longer I live, the more clearly I see that half the trouble in this bally world is caused by the light-hearted and thoughtless way in which chappies dash off letters of introduction and hand them to other chappies to deliver to chappies of the third part. It's one of those things that make you wish you were living in the Stone Age. What I mean to say is, if a fellow in those days wanted to give anyone a letter of introduction, he had to spend a month or so carving it on a large-sized boulder, and the chances were that the other chappie got so sick of lugging the thing round in the hot sun that he dropped it after the first mile. But nowadays it's so easy to write letters of introduction that everybody does it without a second thought, with the result that some perfectly harmless cove like myself gets in the soup.

(from The Inimitable Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Eftsoons

 "If you take my tip you jolly well will, and that eftsoons or right speedily." (from The Inimitable Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

I don't know about you, but "eftsoons" is not a word that I use every day. It means "soon after" and is listed in the dictionary as being an archaic word. But, of course, archaic does not mean that it is wrong. So you can still use it, and people will think you are smart for doing so.

Under Aunt Agatha's thumb

 The hotel which had had the bad luck to draw Aunt Agatha's custom was the Splendide, and by the time I got there there wasn't a member of the staff who didn't seem to be feeling it deeply. I sympathized with them. I've had experience of Aunt Agatha's hotels before. Of course, the real rough work was all over when I arrived, but I could tell by the way everyone groveled before her that she had started by having her first room changed because it hadn't a southern exposure and her next because it had a creaking wardrobe and that she had said her say on the subject of the cooking, the waiting, the chamber-maiding and everything else, with perfect freedom and candour. She had got the whole gang nicely under control by now. The manager, a whiskered cove who looked like a bandit, simply tied himself into knots whenever she looked at him.

(from The Inimitable Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

The good old days

     A resilient bird, Bingo. He may be down, but he is never out. While these little love affairs of his are actually on, nobody could be more earnest and blighted; but once the fuse has blown out and the girl has handed him his hat and begged him as a favour never to let her see him again, up he bobs as merry and bright as ever. If I've seen it happen once, I've seen it happen a dozen times.

    So I didn't worry about Bingo. Or about anything else, as a matter of fact. What with one thing and another, I can't remember ever having been chirpier than at about this period in my career. Everything seemed to be going right. On three separate occasions horses on which I'd invested a sizeable amount won by lengths instead of sitting down to rest in the middle of the race, as horses usually do when I've got money on them.

(from The Inimitable Jeeves, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Murder is murder

     "I'd like you to come, Jean," Patrick insisted.

    "If you think I'm playing guinea pig - "

    "Please!"

    "It goes against the grain," I said. "Of all the people mixed up in this business, the doctor's the one I feel sorriest for. I don't suppose he's much, maybe he's been nothing but a shadow of a doctor all his life, but maybe that's Mrs. Lake's fault. If he did it, I say let him go and good luck!"

    "Jeanie," Patrick said, and his voice had a tender note, "if it relieves your mind any, I feel sorry for him myself."

    Instantly, because of the way he said it, all the pieces of the puzzle flowed together, each in its place. The clues led to Annie, Claire continued to be a mystery, Val might or might not be guilty of manslaughter, Ernest Fabian was the one my mind wanted to pin murder on, or Emma, but Dr. Fearheiley was the answer to all the questions.

    I got out and followed Patrick up the brick walk. I didn't like it, but murder is murder.

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

I'm not THAT interested

     Earnest warmed up. "You know birds, Mr. Abbott? How amazing! But I wish you wouldn't call the screech-owl common. It certainly isn't rare, but so little is known about the habits of this interesting bird, that when I discovered one close by I have given night after night to observing this little fellow and making notes which will be a real contribution, I hope, to ornithology. I wish you'd told me you knew birds."

    "My knowledge is most superficial, compared to yours, Mr. Fabian. But please go on. I'm interested to know what you learn that is worth the discomfort you must suffer - "

    Earnest waved one of the hands. "The discomfort is nothing, if you're interested."

    He talked for twenty minutes about owls. I've got nothing against owls, but I'm almost willing to all them wise and let it go at that.

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

Making childen into idols

     I nodded. "I seem to have heard somewhere that God's noblest creature is a devoted mother, but I can't see much difference between Emma and Mrs. Lake. With Mrs. Lake, it was Fabian and money. With Emma, it's her kids."

    "You're supposed to be like that about kids, Jean."

    "Maybe. But Emma's the kind that thinks hers are the only kids. There's no world to Emma outside that ugly little house and her kids. No great war. No social changes. No art and beauty - oh, skip it!"

    "Not being mothers," Peg said, as I started up, "maybe we aren't being entirely fair.

    I stopped again.

    "Maybe not. Anyhow, what I started out to say in the first place was that if Emma thought she had to do murder for her kid's sake, she'd do it. And think herself justified, even noble, because of it."

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

It takes more than money

 She backed from the room. Patrick Abbott remained standing beside the chair she had assigned him, because he was a stranger and it was her best. I gave the room a onceover. It had the articles in it deemed necessary for the modern living room. They were not of specially inferior quality, but the room looked poor and barren. It was its mistress's poverty of taste and imagination which made it so. I've lived too long among artists to think it takes money to make an attractive home.

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

Circassian walnut

 In her novel, The Golden Box, author Frances Crane refers to furniture that was "American walnut much carved and inlaid with the Circassian walnut." Even though I worked for a year in the furniture industry and we sold pieces of furniture with walnut laminate and stain on them, I do not recall the term "Circassian." The internet tells me that it is "a highly prized, slow-growing walnut species from the Caucasus region, renowned for its dense, fine-grained, and visually striking wood."

Crime has a color

 "I'd hate to touch anything in here," I said. Patrrick was putting on a pair of soft cotton gloves. "If I were you I'd be one of those detectives that does everything by psychology," I said. Patrick said nothing. He was already starting a swift methodical search of everything in the room, beginning with the bed, lifting its covers and sheets, running gloved fingers over the pillows and the ancient mattress, eyeing the rusty springs, then put it together again so that it looked just as it did in the first place. I stood off, and each second hated the whole business more. "I'll do the psychology part," I said. "See that watermelon pink comb on the dresser? If vice has a color, it's watermelon pink. She done it."

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

Catercornered

 "Our table was a long one in the corner catercornered from the bar." (from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

I was surprised when I came across Crane's usage of this word, because it was totally unfamiliar to me. Here in South Logan County we would say "cattycornered."

On the Grammarist website, I found two more options: kittycornered and caddycornered. Which of these you use is entirely a matter of regional preference. However:

"The term was originally catty-corner, which comes from the French word quatre, meaning four. When English speakers got their paws on quatre, it became cater, used to showcase the four spots on a die or the four legs of a beast. Or, in this case, the corners of four city blocks meeting. Eventually, cater-cornered became a term for something positioned diagonally from something else, like the opposite corners on a square die. Then, cater-cornered got clipped to catty-corner, kitty-corner and caddy-corner."

Just leave those dishes alone!

 Ernest Fabian, infallibly punctilious, went around to the front door. And Patrick Abbgott, who you'd think would have been detecting on all cylinders just then, said, "While you hold the villain at bay, Jeanie, I'll start doing the dishes."

I threw him one of my most meaningful looks. In the first place I don't like men who voluntarily do dishes. I can only say in his favor that though he started them at once he did so untidily. Like Peg, I do want to be fair.

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

I never tried to hang myself

     I said, "Why wouldn't she tie the rope itself directly around her neck?"

    "Don't ask me," Bill said.

    Patrick himself, mind you, answered it from where he sat, while he kept his eyes on the glass which he was moving slowly over the rope. "Suicides by hanging for some reason often try to make the ordeal easier by tying a soft scarf or handkerchief around the throat."

    "But why?"

    "Apparently they think it will make it hurt less."

    "Does it?"

    "I don't know," Patrick said impatiently. "I never tried it."

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

You men do your jobs!

 "I don't this is suicide at all. I am quite sure that Earnest Fabian found out that Ida was gossiping about Mrs. Lake'a death and so got scared and murdered her. Even if it were suicide it makes me furious," she declared. "I mean, if Fearheiley had found Mrs. Lake hanging by her neck I don't doubt that he would have called it throat trouble and certified it as due to natural causes, but since Ida's a harmless little colored girl, just to protect themselves they drag in that idiotic Norman Dawes and go through the motions of an inquest, with everything cut and dried in advance. I mean, nobody wants to bother seriously because it's only Ida Raymond. Now, don't you let them get away with it, Bill. You, either, Pat."

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

How to be popular

 He arrived in twenty minutes, looking very satisfactory in gray herringbone, a white shirt, and a blue tie. He fitted right in. Said just the right things in the right way, and not too many of them. Turned on the charm. People who say charm is a sign of a weak character don't know Patrick Abhott. I suppose if you want to enchant people the thing to do is to do nothing casually. Or do something as though it were nothing - such as sitting in late on a poker game and promptly magnetizing the chips. That hooked the man. The girls tumbled because he was lean, tall, looked western and hard to get.

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

The trouble with funerals

     "Lucky you took along Toby, the celebrated feline flatfoot. Love, Pat," he wired back three days later, by which time Mrs. Claribel Fabian Lake had been stowed in the Fabian vault in the Elm Hill cemetery.

    For a while the body had made news. There had been a private funeral, for one thing, the first ever held in Elm Hill. And before that people talked because the body had been taken to St. Louis for embalming, and when it was brought back the coffin stood in the parlor under a blanket of orchids and gardenias, and, so far as anyone heard, was not opened. Ernest went to some trouble to explain to people that his cousin had a horror of being looked at after death. Which was all right, except that she had done plenty of looking herself, having been a great one to go to funerals, and people didn't like it. Funerals are rather communal in Elm Hill. To be told not to send flowers and that the funeral would be private made us feel snubbed.

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

By women for women

 "She had on a powder-blue jersey shirt and brown jersey slacks."

This is a sentence taken from Frances Crane's novel, The Golden Box, published in 1942. 

It is interesting to me when writers reveal bald-facedly that they are willingly sacrificing half their market. This story is a murder mystery, and IF the sentence above had imbedded within it some sort of clue that would lead us down the path of discovering who done it, then I (speaking as a male) could see some purpose to it. But you will have to take my word for it that it does not. It is like the descriptions of wedding gowns that used to be published in the newspapers. Did any man EVER read those? Highly unlikely. Nor do any men who might read this novel care what Peg was wearing as she came into the room carrying a glass of orange juice. There is nothing wrong with it, it is just not something that would interest the typical male reader.

So, since this is a mystery, and we are murder mystery fans, what do we deduce from the sentence at the top of this page? It tells us that this was a story written by a woman for women. It is actually a fairly good yarn and the detective who solves the mystery is a man. But the person telling the story is a woman, and she tells us things that could only interest a woman. So, either the author was pointing this story strictly at a female market, or she was woefully ignorant of the differences between the sexes, which I doubt. OR she was making the teller of the tail realistic by having her focus on things that would interest a woman, which I suspect is the truth.

The parallel on the male side of the equation would be a Louis L'Amour novel in which the hero shoots three bad guys on the first page. He is not writing that book for women. Oh, sure, a good many women may read it, but he reveals his market by how he writes the book.

It's the nose that does it

Peg and I were the same age. Twenty-six. I hoped I was as well preserved as she was. We were said to look alike, and we both do have the yellow Holly eyes with black brows and lashes, but Peg was extra lucky in getting tawny hair and a perky nose to go with them. Nothing lightens a girl's path like a nose that invites a tweak, especially when it is backed by strong character like my cousin Peg's. My hair is black, my nose, alas, is quite conventional, and my character is definitely wavery.

(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)

His kind of woman

     He said, "Still she's hardly my ideal woman."

    "But really!" I said. With sarcasm.

    "I never have cared much for women who screech and yelp if they don't get everything they want when they want it. Other peoples' husbands, for instance. But I do like women who are easy to look at."

    "So I've noticed!" I snapped.

    "Still, I'm not partial to blondes. I like them slim, with white skin, black hair, amber eyes, long lashes, competent hands, minds of their own even though cockeyed, sympathetic even when it's not quite bright to be so, with a shop in which you love to sit around and prattle, lots of friends - "

    "You seem to have someone in mind."

    "I have. Definitely," Patrick Abbott said.

    I could feel my color coming up like a sunrise. I looked at him again. He was watching me. With an eyebrow up I must admit that he was putting me in a state of great mental confusion. But it was very agreeable.

(from The Turquoise Shop, by Frances Crane)

Should have stuck to art

     I sighed "I can't believe it. Michael was so nice."

    "Nice? Clever, you mean. Gifted. Ruthless. Sly. He took such pains to make people like him, simply because he understood you all so well. Better than you did yourselves sometimes. He flattered Mona Brandon, was candid with you, cool and businesslike with me. He should have done something constructive with such a talent. He certainly was a better artist than criminal, though. He walked right into our traps."

    "So you did work on the case?"

    "Oh, no. Just helped the sheriff out a bit."

    "You're modest."

    "Me? You ought to ee me strutting around on a case of my own!"

(from The Turquoise Shop, by Frances Crane)

A bad place to be a private eye

    "Pat," I said, and my voice sounded small, "do you think he did it?"

    

    "What?"

    

    "Murdered Arkwright and took that money?"

    

    Patrick slanted a glance at me. "I had rather gathered that you thought Mona had Luis Martinez do it."

    "That's really more like it, Pat. Gilbert honestly couldn't do such things."

    "I don't wonder you're all mixed up. I feel sorry for any investigator, no matter what the crime, in a place like this. What with people wanting to cover up for their friends or worrying about what will happen to their business if they antagonize Mona Brandon and with everybody knowing what everybody else will do before they do it, well - "

(from The Turquoise Shop, by Frances Crane)

Try a little kindness

 "How did you get the knife, Gilbert?" I asked.

"I went out there. Found it at the scene of the crime."

"Keeping it makes you an accessory after the fact."

"You're telling me?" he said, irritably.

"Of course I know you'll do what is wise, Gilbert," I purred. Gilbert flowered under this treatment. I wondered why I had never thought of it before.

(from The Turquoise Shop, by Frances Crane)

A community by and for crazy folks

     I stood with my back to the fire, hearing it crackle, feeling the gay warmth and smelling the piney smell. Through the wide window I noticed how the stormy sky made a backdrop for the haphazard-looking row of buildings across the plaza. Each side had its assortment of stores, shops and offices. Some were adobe, some brick, some wood, some had portals, some none, some lined up with each other, some didn't. All Santa Maria was like that. The streets ran any old way and the houses were all shapes and sizes and made no effort to align with their neighbors or the streets.

    Julia Price said that Santa Maria looked like a community style asylum built by the inmates. In which case, Daisy Payne said, Gilbert Mason would be inmate number one, though not because he did any building, and Gilbert retorted that the honor was ipso facto Daisy's. Their feud never had a lull.

(from The Turquoise Shop, by Frances Crane)

Not one cough?!

 Up to that point, life had been relatively easy for Frances. Her husband, Ned Crane, was a well-paid advertising executive with the J. Walter Thompson agency, whose dubious claim to immortality was the Old Gold cigarette slogan, "Not a cough in a carload."

[From the preface to The Turquoise Shop, by Frances Crane. Crane was a mystery writer and the creator of the Pat and Jean Abbott team and their 26 novels, and this book was the first in that series. The pair went on to be the subject of a radio series. And can you imagine someone being bald-faced enough to claim that smoking a carload of cigarettes would not cause a single cough?]

Look deep into my eyes!

     "Listen," said Cyril, and his voice shook like a jelly in a high wind. "Does it count if you ask a girl to marry you when you're hypnotized?"

    "You are speaking of Miss Flack?"

    "Yes, I proposed to her on the practice green, carried away by the super-excellence of her chip shots, and I can't stand the sight of her. And, what's more, in about three weeks I'm supposed to be marrying someone else. You remember Patricia Binstead, the girl who showed you into my office?"

    "Very vividly."

    "She holds the copyright. What am I to do? You couldn't go and hypnotize Agnes Flack and instil her, as you call it, with the idea that I'm the world's leading louse, could you?"

    "My dear fellow, nothing easier."

    "Then do it without an instant's delay," said Cyril. "Tell her I'm scratch and pretended to have a twenty-four handicap in order to win the medal. Tell her I'm sober only at the rarest intervals. Tell her I'm a Communist spy and my name's really Groolinsky. Tell her I've two wives already. But you'll know what to say."

(from "Sleepy Time," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

What sort of girl is she?

     "The whole thing," he said, "is one of those unfortunate misunderstandings. When they made me scratch, my first move was to thank Miss Flack warmly for all she had done for me."

    "Naturally."

    "I let myself go rather."

    "You would, of course."

    "Then, feeling that after all the trouble she had taken to raise me to the heights she was entitled to be let in on the inside story, I told her my reason for being so anxious to get down to scratch was that I loved a scratch girl and wanted to be worthy of her. Upon which, chuckling like a train going through a tunnel, she gave me a slap on the back which nearly drove my spine through the front of my pullover and said she had guessed it from the very start, from the moment when she first saw me dogging her footsteps with that look of dumb devotion in my eyes. You could have knocked me down with a putter."

    "She then said she would marry you?"

    "Yes, and what could I do? A girl," said Harold Pickering fretfully, "who can't distinguish between the way a man looks when he's admiring a chip shot thirty feet from the green and the way he looks when he's in love ought not to be allowed at large."

    There seemed nothing to say. The idea of suggesting that he should break off the engagement presented itself to me, but I dismissed it. Women are divided broadly into two classes - those who, when jilted, merely drop a silent tear and those who take a niblick from their bag and chase the faithless swain across the country with it.

(from "Scratch Man," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Not a literary giant

 "I kissed William, shook him by the hand, tied a wet towel around his head, gave him pencil and paper and locked him up in the morning-room with lots of hot coffee. When I asked him just now how he was making out, he said that he had had no inspiration so far but would keep on swinging. His voice sounded very hollow. I can picture the poor darling's agony. The only thing he has ever written before in his life was a stiff letter to the Greens Committee beefing about the new bunker on the fifth, and that took him four days and left him as limp as a rag."

(from "Rodney Has a Relapse," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

The world's rudest kid

 "Why, of course!" she cried, clasping her hands in a sort of ecstasy. "I ought to have thought of it myself. People may say what they like about my sweet Braid, but they can't deny that he is the rudest child this side of the Atlantic Ocean. I'll send him to you the moment he clocks in."

    Braid Bates at that time was a young plug-ugly of some nine summers, in appearance a miniature edition of William and in soul and temperament a combination of Dead End Kid and army mule; a freckled, hard-boiled character with a sardonic eye and a mouth which, when not occupied in eating, had a cynical twist to it. He spoke little as a general thing, but when he did speak seldom failed to find a chink in the armour. The impact of such a personality on little Timothy must, I felt, be tremendous, and I was confident that we could not have placed the child in better hands.

(from "Rodney Has a Relapse," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Not the right sort of woman

        A girl who has loved, even if mistakenly, can never be indifferent to the fortunes of the man whom she once regarded as the lode star of her life. She kept wondering how he was making out, and hoped that his vacation was not spoiled by a broken heart.

    The first time she saw him, accordingly, she should have been relieved and pleased. He was escorting Cora McGuffy Spottsworth along the boardwalk, and it was abundantly obvious even from a casual glance that if his heart had ever been broken, there had been some adroit work done in the repair shop. Clark Gable could have improved his technique by watching the way he bent over Cora McGuffey Spottsworth and stroked her slender arm. He also, while bending and stroking, whispered into her shell-like ear, and you could see that what he was saying was good stuff. His whole attitude was that of a man who, recognizing that he was on a good thing, was determined to push it along.

    But Agnes Flack was not relieved and pleased; she was disturbed and concerned. She was perhaps a hard judge, but Cora McGuffy Spottsworth looked to her like the sort of woman who goes about stealing the plans of forts - or, at the best, leaning back negligently on a settee and saying, "Prince, my fan." The impression Agnes formed was of something that might be all right stepping out of a pie at a bachelor party, but not the type you could take home to meet mother.

(from "Feet of Clay," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Close, but lacking a few qualifications

     "Naturally, she compares you to your disadvantage with such a man as 'Mgoopi 'Mgwumpi."

    Ernest Plinlimmon's eyes widened and his mouth fell open, causing him to look exactly like a fish I once caught off Brighton pier.

    "Such a man as - what was that name again?"

    "'Mgoopi 'Mgwumpi. He was the chief, if I remember rightly, of the Lesser 'Mgowpi. I gather that his personality made a deep impression upon Miss Fitch, and that, but for the fact that he was as black as the ace of spades and aready had twenty-seven wives and a hundred pares, something might have come of it. At any rate, she as good as told me the other day that what she was looking for someone who, while possessing the engaging spiritual qualities of this chief, was rather blonder and a bachelor."

(from "There's Always Golf," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Golf by brute force

     Poskitt, the d'Artagnan of the links, was a man who brought to the tee the tactics which in his youth had won him such fame as a hammer thrower. His plan was to clench his teeth, shut his eyes, whirl the club around his head and bring it down with sickening violence in the general direction of the sphere. Usually, the only result would be a ball topped along the ground or - as had been known to happen when he used his niblick - cut in half. But there would come times when by some mysterious dispensation of Providence he managed to connect, in which event the gallery would be stunned by the spectacle of a three-hundred-yarder down the middle. The whole thing, as he himself recognized, was a clean, sporting venture. He just let go and hoped for the best.

(from "The Letter of the Law," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Not a woman to mess around with

 Mark you, if ever men had an excuse for being ill at ease in the presence of the opposite sex, these two had. They were both eighteen-handicap men, and Agnes was exuberantly and dynamically scratch. Her physique was an asset to her, especially in the long game. She stood about five feet ten in her stockings, and had shoulders and forearms which would have excited the envious admiration of one of those muscular women on the music-halls, who good-naturedly allow six brothers, three sisters, and a cousin by marriage to pile themselves on her collarbone while the orchestra plays a long-drawn chord and the audience hurries out to the bar. Her eye resembled the eye of one of the more imperious queens of history; and when she laughed, strong men clutched at their temples to keep the tops of their heads from breaking loose.

(from "Those In Peril on the Tee," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Happy ending

     William brooded for a while. He was not a quick thinker.

    "Well, look here," he said at length, "this is the point. This is the nub of the thing. This is where I want you to follow me very closely. Have you asked Anastatia to marry you?"

    "Marry me?" Rodney gazed at him, shocked. "Have I asked her to marry me? I, who am not worthy to polish the blade of her niblick! I, who have not even a thirty handicap, ask a girl to marry me who was in the semi-final of last year's Ladis' Open! No, no, Bates, I may be a vers-libre poet, but I have some sense of what is fitting. I love her, yes. I love her with a fervour which causes me to frequently and for hours at a time lie tossing sleeplessly upon my pillow. But I would not dare to ask her to marry me."

    Anastatia burst into a peal of girlish laughter. "You poor chump!" she cried. "Is that what has been the matter all this time? I couldn't make out what the trouble was. Why, I'm crazy about you. I'll marry you any time you give the word."

    Rodney reeled. "What!"

    "Of course I will."

    "Anastatia!"

    "Rodney!" He folded her in his arms.

(from "The Purification of Rodney Spelvin," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Nothing to be afraid of

     The studio was one of those dim, over-ornamented rooms which appeal to men like Rodney Spelvin. Heavy curtains hung in front o the windows. One corner was cut off by a high-backed Chesterfield. At the far end was an alcove, curtained like the windows. Once Jane had admired this studio, but now it made her shiver. It seemed to her one of those nests in which, as the sub-title of Tried in the Furnace had said, only eggs of evil were hatched. She paced the thick carpet restlessly, and suddenly there came to her the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

    Jane stopped, every muscle tense. The moment had arrived. She faced the door, tight-lipped. It comforted her a little in this crisis to reflect that Rodney was not one of those massive Ethel M. Dell libertines who might make things unpleasant for an intruder. He was only a welter-weight egg of evil; and, if he tried to start anything, a girl of her physique would have little or no difficulty in knocking the stuffing out of him.

(from "The Purification of Rodney Spelvin," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

[Ethel M. Dell was a writer of popular British romance novels.]

Better to be prepared

 "Do not let us speak of it," he said, registering pain. It was quite easy for him to do this. All there was to it was tightening the lips and drawing up the left eyebrow. He had practiced it in front of his mirror, for a fellow never knew when it might not come in useful.

(from "Jane Gets Off the Fairway," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

After all these years!

     "Rodney!" gasped Jane.

    It was a difficult moment for Rodney Spelvin. Five years had passed since he had last seen Jane, and in those five years so many delightful creatures had made a fuss of him that the memory of the girl to whom he had once been engaged for a few weeks had become a little blurred. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, he had forgotten Jane altogether. The fact that she had addressed him by his first name seemed to argue that they must have met at some time somewhere; but, though he strained his brain, absolutely nothing stirred.

    The situation was one that might have embarrassed another man, but Rodney Spelvin was a quick thinker. He saw at a glance that Jane was an extremely pretty girl, and it was his guiding rule in life never to let anything like that get past him. So he clasped her hand warmly, allowed an expression of amazed delight to sweep over his face, and gazed tensely into her eyes.

    "You!" he murmured, playing it safe. "You, little one!"

    Jane stood five feet seven in her stockings and had a forearm like the village blacksmith's, but she liked being called "little one."

    "How strange that we should meet like this!" she said, blushing brightly.

    "After all these years," said Rodney Spelvin, taking a chance. It would be a nuisance if it turned out that they had met at a studio-party the day before yesterday, but something seemed to tell him that she dated back a goodish way. Besides, even if they had met the day before yesterday, he could get out of it by saying that the hours had seemed like years. For you cannot stymie these modern poets.

(from "Jane Gets Off the Fairway," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Come on, Bill, get with it!

 And it did not appear likely that anything would weaken Jane's regard. They had much in common, for she was a calm, slow-moving person, too. They had a mutual devotion to golf, and played together every day; and the fact that their handicaps were practically level formed a strong bond. Most divorces, as you know, spring from the fact that the husband is too markedly superior to his wife at golf; this leading him, when she starts criticizing his relations, to say bitter and unforgivable things about her mashie-shots. Nothing of this kind could happen with William and Jane. They would build their life on a solid foundation of sympathy and understanding. The years would find them consoling and encouraging each other, happy married lovers. If, that is to say, William ever got round to proposing.

(from "Rodney Fails To Qualify," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Love is but a tepid emotion

 His fingers picked feverishly at the arm of his chair. He had paled to the very lips. If the office was barred to him, on what pretext could he sneak away from home? And sneak he must for tomorrow and the day after the various qualifying sixteens were to play the match-rounds for the cups; and it was monstrous and impossible that he should not be there. He must be there. He had done ninety-six, and the next best medal score in his sixteen was a hundred and one. For the first time in his life he had before him the prospect of winning a cup; and, highly though the poets have spoken of love, that emotion is not to be compared with the frenzy which grips a twenty-four-handicap man who sees himself within reach of a cup.

(from "Keeping In with Vosper," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

The origins of Absolutism

     "To lose one's temper at golf is foolish. It gets you nothing, not even relief. Imitate the spirit of Marcus Aurelius. 'Whatever may befall thee,' says that great man in his 'Meditations,' 'it is preordained for thee from everlasting. Nothing happens to anybody which he is not fitted by nature to bear.' I like to think that this noble thought came to him after he had sliced a couple of new balls into the woods, and that he jotted it down on the back of his scorecard. For there can be no doubt that the man was a golfer, and a bad golfer at that."

(from "Ordeal by Golf," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Simple - just kill George

     "By the way," I said, looking round, "where is your fiance?"

    "I have no fiance," she said, in a dull, hard voice.

    "You have broken off the engagement?"

    "Not exactly. And yet - well, I suppose it amounts to that."

    "I don't quite understand."

    "Well, the fact is," said Celia, in a burst of girlish frankness, "I rather think I've killed George."

    "Killed him, eh?"

    It was a solution that had not occurred to me, but now that it was presented for my inspection I could see its merits. In these days of national effort, when we are all working together to try to make our beloved land fit for heroes to live in, it was astonishing that nobody before had thought of a simple, obvious thing like killing George Mackintosh. George Mackintosh was undoubtedly better dead, but it had taken a woman's intuition to see it.

    "I killed him with my niblick," said Celia.

    I nodded. If the thing was to be done at all, it was unquestionably a niblick shot.

(from "The Salvation of George Mackintosh, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

She doesn't like golf?!

     "Peter, old man, that girl aid golf bored her pallid. She said she thought it was the silliest game ever invented." He paused to mark the effect of his words. Peter merely smiled a faint, wan smile. "You don't seem revolted," said James.

    "I am revolted, but not surprised. You see, she said the same thing to me only a few minutes before."

    "She did!"

    "It amounted to the same thing. I had just been telling her how I did the lake-hole today in two, and she said that in her opinion golf was a game for children with water on the brain who weren't athletic enough to play Animal Grab."

    The two men shivered in sympathy.

    "There must be insanity in the family," said James at last.

    "That," said Peter, "is the charitable explanation.

(from "A Woman Is Only a Woman," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Concerning knitting

 No masculine eye can reckon up purls and plains and estimate the size of chest which the garment is destined to cover. Moreover, with amateur knitters there much always be allowed a margin for involuntary error. There were many cases during the war where our girls sent sweaters to their sweethearts which would have induced strangulation in their young brothers. The amateur sweater of those days was, in fact, practically tantamount to German propaganda.

(from "A Woman is Only a Woman," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Wagering on love

 So little was known of the form of the two men, neither having figured as principal in a love-affair before, that even money was the best you could get, and the market was sluggish. I think my own flutter of twelve golf balls, taken up by Percival Brown, was the most substantial of any of the wagers. I selected James as the winner. Why, I can hardly say, unless that he had an aunt who contributed occasional stories to the "Women's Sphere." These thing sometimes weigh with a girl. On the other hand, George Lucas, who had half-a-dozen of ginger-ale on Peter, based his calculations on the fact that James wore knickerbockers on the links, and that no girl could possibly love a man with calves like that. In short, you see, we really had nothing to go on.

(from "A Woman Is Only a Woman," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Nothing he can be proud of

    "Where you headed for, son?"

    "Riley McClean shrugged. "This is as good a place as any. I'm hunting a job."

    "What do you do?"

    "Most anything. It don't make no difference."

    Now when a man says that he can do most anything, it is a safe bet he can do nothing, or at least that he can do nothing well. If a man has a trade, he is proud of it and says so, and usually he will do a passing job of anything else he tackled.

(from "The One for the Mohave Kid," by Louis L'Amour)

Enough to make a preacher cuss

 Invariably, in the course of a man's struggle with a collar button it would slip from his fingers and roll into the most inaccessible place in the room. It was never possible to simply stoop down and pick up a collar button. One always had to get down on one's knees and reach under whatever piece of furniture was nearby and feel around for the missing object. It has been reliably reported that even ministers of the gospel used unseemly language on such occasions.

(from "McQueen of the Tumbling K," by Louis L'Amour)

She had already proposed

     He placed his hat carefully on the hook and sat down. He was suddenly tired. He ran his fingers through his crisp, dark hair. "Me?" he blinked his eyes and reached for the coffeepot. "I am going to shave and take a bath. Then I'm going to sleep for twenty hours about, and then I'm going to throw the leather on my horse and hit the trail."

    "I told you over there," Carol said quietly, "that I didn't want you to go."

    "Uh-uh. If I don't go now," he looked at her somberly, "I'd never want to go again."

    "Then don't go," she said.

    He didn't.

(from "The Man from Battle Flat," by Louis L'Amour)

Carpetbag courts

 In his short story, "Keep Travelin', Rider," Louis L'Amour refers to carpetbag courts, which were, of course, the legal system set up in the south after the War Between the States. We can assume that true justice for southerners was a vain hope in those days. One can only imagine what it was like living in the old south in those days.

A policeman's lot

 "I know you'll understand that in a case like this we have to fuss about and try to get as complete a picture as possible of the days, sometimes even the weeks and months, before the event. It generally turns out that ninety-nine percent of the information is quite useless and then everybody thinks how needlessly inquisitive and impertinent the police are. Sometimes, however, there is an apparently irrelevant detail that leads, perhaps by accident, to the truth."

(from Scales of Justice, by Dame Ngaio Marsh)

The hard part of being a cop

 Alleyn decided to press home what might or might not be an advantage and so did so with distaste. He had been in the police service for over twenty years. Under slow pressure his outward habit had toughened, but, like an ice cube that under warmth will yield its surface but retain its inward form, so his personality had kept its pattern intact. When an investigation led him, as this did, to take action that was distasteful to him, he imposed a discipline upon himself and went forward. It was a kind of abstinence, however, that prompted him to do so.

(from Scales of Justice, by Dame Ngaio Marsh)

Murder? Not likely

     "Ah. The baronet, now," Fox went on, "he's sweet on her as anyone could see. Would you think it was a strong enough attraction to incite either of them to violence?"

    "I should think he was going through the silly season most men of his type experience. I must say I can't see him raising an amatory passion to the power of homicide in any woman. You never know of course. I should think she must find life in Swevenings pretty dim."

(from Scales of Justice, by Dame Ngaio Marsh)

P. C. Gripper

 "Sergeants Bailey and Thompson and P. C. Gripper made sympathetic noises."

We find this expression in Scales of Justice, by Dame Ngaio Marsh. The abbreviation "P. C." stands for Police Constable, which is the lowest rank in the British police hierarchy.

Overly fastidious

     "I wouldn't mention the boy if I were you. He was in the Foreign Service and blotted his copybook as I dare say you know. It was quite a tragedy. It's never mentioned."

    "Is it not? What sort of a man was Colonel Carterette?"

    "Pig-headed, quixotic fellow. Obstinate as a mule. One of those pathetically conscientious people who aim so high they get a permanent crick in their conscience."

(from Scales of Justice, by Dame Ngaio Marsh)

The evil eye

 His voice had rung out with the clarion note of a costermonger seeking to draw the attention of the purchasing public to his blood oranges and Brussels sprouts. I saw the ancestor stiffen, and I knew she was about to go into her grande dame act. This relative, though in ordinary circs so genial and matey, can on occasion turn in a flash into a carbon copy of a duchess of the old school reducing an underling to a spot of grease, and what is so remarkable is that she doesn't have to use a lorgnette, just does it all with the power of the human eye. I think girls in her day used to learn the trick at their finishing schools.

(from Jeeves and the Tie That Binds, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Not wholly spiritual

     "He stands it, aged relative, because he loves her, and you wouldn't be far wrong in saying that love conquers all. I know what you mean, of course. It suprises you that a fellow of his thews and sinews should curl up in a ball when she looks squiggle-eyed at him and receive her strictures, if that's the word I want, with the meekness of a spaniel rebuked for bringing a decaying bone into the drawing room. What you overlook is the fact that in the matter of finely chiseled profile, willowy figure and platinum-blonde hair she is well up among the top ten, and these things weigh with a man like Ginger. You and I, regarding Florence coolly, pencil her in as too bossy for hyman consumption, but he gets a different slant. It's the old business of what Jeeves calls the psychology of the individual.

    "Very possibly the seeds of rebellion start to seethe within him when she speaks her mind, but he catches sight of her sideways or gets a glimpse of her hair, assuming for purposes of argument that she isn't wearing  hat, or notices once again that she has as many curves as a scenic railway, and he feels that it's worth putting up with a spot of mind-speaking in order to make her his own. His love, you see, is not wholly spiritual. There's a bit of the carnal mixed up in it."

(from Jeeves and the Tie That Binds, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

He botched it again

     "It was the Chamber of Commerce luncheon at the Town Hall. A vitally important occasion, and he made the feeblest speech i have ever heard. A child with water on the brain could have done better. Even you could have done better."

    Well, I suppose placing me on a level of efficiency with a water-on-the-brain child was quite a stately compliment coming from Florence, so I didn't go further into the matter, and she carried on, puffs of flame emerging from both nostrils.

    "Er, er, er!"

    "I beg your pardon."

    "He kept saying Er, Er, er, er. I could have thrown a coffee spoon at him."

    Here, of course, was my chance to work in the old gag about to err being human, but it didn't seem to me the moment. Instead, I said, "He was probably nervous."

(from Jeeves and the Tie That Binds, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Sir Pelham

 You may have noticed that when I give the references on this blog for any quotes from the inimitable comedic writer, P. G. Wodehouse, I call him "Sir Pelham." His full name was Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (pronounced WOOD-house). The nickname used by family and close friends was "Plum," which I suspect was a contraction of Pelham.

Wodehouse was knighted in the 1975 New Year's Honours List, just a month before he died on February 14th. He and actor Charlie Chaplin were knighted in the same ceremony. 

Wodehouse and Chaplin were both given the rank of K. B. E., or Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire. 

The five classes of appointment to the order are, from highest grade to lowest grade:

1. Knight Grand Cross or Dame Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (GBE);
2. Knight Commander or Dame Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (KBE or DBE);
3. Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (CBE);
4. Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (OBE); and
5. Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (MBE).

The senior two ranks of Knight or Dame Grand Cross and Knight or Dame Commander entitle their members to use the titles Sir for men and Dame for women before their forenames, except with honorary awards.

Curiously, Bob Hope was made an honorary Knight Commander, but as far as I have been able to find, was never called "Sir." Wodehouse and Chaplin, although they spent large portions of their lives in the United States, were naturally born British subjects, and so were entitled to be called "Sir." Since Hope was born near London, it is not clear why he was never called "Sir."

I'll be glad when you're gone, you rascal, you

     "Oh, Bertie, how nice to see you again. How are you?"

    "I'm fine. How are you?"

    "I'm fine."

    "That's fine. How's your father?"

    "He's fine."

    I was sorry to hear this. My relations with Sir Watkyn Bassett were such that a more welcome piece of news would have been that he had contracted bubonic plague and wasn't expected to recover.

(from Jeeves and the Tie That Binds, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

There is something about Earls

 When she had been betrothed to Gussie Fink-Nottle, the peril of her making a switch had always been present, Gussie being the sort of spectacled newt-collecting freak a girl might at any moment get second thoughts about, but there was something so reassuring in her being engaged to Spode. Because, whatever you might think of him, you couldn't get away from it that he was the seventh Earl of Sidcup, and no girl who has managed to hook a seventh Earl with a castle in Shropshire and an income of twenty thousand pounds per annum is lightly  going to change her mind about him.

(from Jeeves and the Tie That Binds, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

The problem with over-population

     "Whoever told you about population explosions?"

    "Jeeves. They are rather a favorite subject of his. He says if something isn't done pretty soon - "

    "I'll bet he said, If steps are not taken shortly through the proper channels."

    "He did, as a matter of fact. He said, If steps are not taken shortly through the proper channels, half the world will soon be standing on the other half's shoulders."

    "All right if you're one of the top layer."

    "Yes, there's that, of course."

    "Though even then it would be uncomfortable. Tricky sort of balancing act."

    "True."

    "And difficult to go for a stroll if you wanted to stretch the legs. And one wouldn't get much hunting."

    "Not much."

(from Jeeves and the Tie That Binds, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

    

Watch those stockbrokers!

     "You'll hardly believe this, but soon after that he turned up at Totleigh Towers, Sir Watkyn's house in Gloucestershire."

    "Incredible!'

    "I thought you'd think so."

    "Disguised, of course? A wig? A false beard? His cheeks stained with walnut juice?"

    "No, he came quite openly, invited by my future wife. She has a sort of sentimental pity for him. I think she hopes to reform him."

    "Girls will be girls."

    "Yes, but I wish they wouldn't."

    "Did you rebuke your future wife?"

    "I wasn't in a position to then."

    "Probably a wise thing, anyway. I once rebuked the girl I wanted to marry, and she went off and teamed up with a stockbroker."

(from Jeeves and the Tie That Binds, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Defending the family honor

     There was something in the unhappy man's tone as he spoke, something so crushed and forlorn, that John could not but melt a little. He paused at the door. I crossed his mind that he might possibly be able to cheer him up.

    "Uncle Lester," he said, "hod did you get on with Sergeant-Major Flannery at Healthward Ho?" 

    Mr. Carmody winced. Unpleasant memories seemed to be troubling him.

    "Just before I left," said John, "I blacked his eye and we fell downstairs together."

    "Downstairs?"

    "Right down the entire flight. He thumped his head against an oak chest."

    On Mr. Carmody's drawn face there hovered for an instant a faint flickering smile.

    "I thought you'd be pleased," said John.

(from Money For Nothing," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Felony and fat

 It has been laid down by an acute thinker that there is a subtle connection between felony and fat. Almost all embezzlers, for instance, says this authority, are fat men. Whether this is or is not true, the fact remains that the sensational criminality of the suggestion just made to him awoke no horror in Mr. Carmody's ample bosom. He was startled, as any man might be who had this sort of idea sprung suddenly on him in his own garden, but he was not shocked. A youth and middle age spent on the London Stock Exchange had left Lester Carmody singularly broad-minded. He had to a remarkable degree that spacious charity which allows a man to look indulgently on any financial project, however, fishy, provided he can see a bit in it for himself.

(from Money For Nothing, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Ah, for the days when churls were churls

 The lot of the English landed proprietor, felt Mr. Carmody, is not what it used to be in the good old times. When the first Carmody settled in Rudge he had found little to view with alarm. those were the days when churls were churls, and a scurvy knave was quite content to work twelve hours a day, Saturdays included, in return for a little black bread and an occasional nod of approval from his overlord. But in this twentieth century England's peasantry has degenerated. Modern sons of the soil expect coddling. Their roofs leak, and you have to mend them; their walls fall down and you have to build them up; their lanes develop holes and you have to restore the surface, and all this runs into money. The way things were shaping, felt Mr. Carmody, in a few years a landlord would be expected to pay for the repairs of his tenants' wireless sets.

(from Money For Nothing, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

I don't need to know about your BVDs

     Some years before the date of the events narrated in this story, at the time when there was all that trouble between the aristocratic householders of Riverside Row and the humbler dwellers in Budd Street (arising, if you remember, from the practice of the later of washing their more intimate articles of underclothing and hanging them to dry in back-gardens into which their exclusive neighbors were compelled to gaze every time they looked out of the window), the vicar of the parish, the  Rev. Alistair Pond-Pond, always a happy phrase-maker, wound up his address at the annual village sports of Rudge with an impressive appeal to the good feeling of those concerned.

    "We must not," said the Rev. Alistair, "consider ourselves as belonging to this section of Rudge-in-the-Vale or to that section of Rudge-in-the-Vale. Let us get together. Let us recollect that we are all fellow-members of one united community. Rudge must be looked on as a whole. And what a whole it is!"

(from Money For Nothing, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Society boxers?

 "Have you noticed," said Hugo, touching on a matter to which he had given some thought, "a rather odd thing about boxers these days? A few years ago you never heard of one that wasn't Beefy this or Porky that or Young Cat's-meat or something. But now they're all Claudes and Harolds and Cuthberts. And when you consider that the heavyweight champion of the world is actually named Eugene it makes you think a bit."

(from Money For Nothing, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

[By way of context, this book was first published in 1928, when the heavyweight champ was Gene Tunney. Tunney's birth name was actually James Joseph Tunney. In 1928, he married wealthy socialite Mary "Polly" Lauder. One of Tunney's sons because a U. S. Representative and Senator from California, and one became a lawyer and district attorney, so his life was somewhat different from that of most boxers of the era.]

A grip like a gorilla

     "My father left me a few thousand, you see, but most injudiciously made Uncle Lester my trustee, and I'm not allowed to get at the capital without the old blighter's consent. And now a pal of mine in London has written offering me a half share in a new night club which he's starting if I will put up five hundred pounds."

    "I see."

    "And what I ask myself," said Hugo, "is, will Uncle Lester part? That's what I ask myself.'

    "From what I've seen of Mr. Carmody, I shouldn't say that parting was the thing he does best."

    "He's got absolutely no gift for it whatever," said Hugo gloomily.

(from Money For Nothing, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Perhape one too many?

    "Oh, hallo, Aunt Daphne," he said. "Where are you off to?"

    "I am going to bed. I have a headache. Why are you so late, Esmond?"

    "Well, if you ask me," said Esmond cheerily, "I'd say it was because I didn't arrive sooner."

    "Colonel and Mrs. Kegley-Bassington were most surprised. They could not understand why you were not here."

    Esmond uttered a ringing laugh. "Then they must be the most priceless fatheads," he said. "You'd think a child would have realized that the solution was that I was somewhere else."

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

    

It doesn't take a brain surgeon

 Police constables are not built for speed. Where you catch them at their best is standing on street corners saying, "Pass along there." But, as I was stressing a moment ago, Augustus Fink-Nottle, in addition to being a flat racer of marked ability, was also a fathead, and now, when he had victory in his grasp, the fatheaded streak in him came uppermost. There was a tree standing at the roadside and, suddenly swerving off the course, he made for it and hoisted himself into its branches. And what he supposed that was going to get him, only his diseased mind knew. Ernest Dobbs may not have been one of Hampshire's brightest thinkers, but he was smart enough to stand under a tree.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Frogs?!

     I goggled. "Doing what?"

    "Strewing frogs. In Constable Dobbs's boudoir. The Vicar suggested it."

    "The Vicar?"

    "I mean it was he who gave Corky the idea. She had been brooding a lot, poor girl, on Dobbs's high-handed behaviour in connection with her dog, and last night the Vicar happened to speak of Pharaoh and all those Plagues he got when he wouldn't let the Children of Israel go. You probably recall the incident? His words started a train of thought. It occurred to Corky that if Dobbs were visited by a Plague of Frogs, it might quite possibly change his heart and make him let Sam Goldwyn go. So she asked me to look in at his cottage and attend to the matter. She said it would please her and be good for Dobbs and would only take a few minutes of my time. She felt that the Plague of Lice might be even more effective, but she is a practical, clear-thinking girl and realized that lice are had to come by, whereas you can find frogs in any hedgerow."

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

    

Short, but sturdy

 The sleepless guardian of the peace of King's Deverill was one of those chunky, nobbly officers. It was as though Nature, setting out to assemble him, had said to herself, "I will not skimp." Nor had she done so, except possibly in the matter of height. I believe that in order to become a member of the Force you have to stand five feet nine inches in your socks, and Ernest Dobbs can only just have got his nose under the wire. But this slight perpendicular shortage had the effect of rendering his bulk all the more impressive. He was plainly a man who, had he felt disposed, could have understudied the village blacksmith and no questions asked, for it could be seen at a glance that the muscles of his brawny arms were strong as iron bands.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Step aside, brother

 "H'm!" he said. "This will want a little management."

"Yes," I concurred.

"It calls for sophisticated handling. We shall have to think this over."

"I've been thinking it over for hours."

"Yes, but you've got one of those cheap substitute brains which are never any good. It will be different when a man like me starts giving it the cream of his intellect."

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

There are poets, and then there are poets

 It would not have surprised you to learn that Esmond Haddock was the author of sonnet sequences of a fruity and emotional nature which had made him the toast of Bloomsbury, for his air was that of a man who could rhyme "love" and "dove" as well as the next chap. Nor would you have been astonished if informed that he had recently felled an ox with a single blow. You would simply have felt what an ass the ox must have been to get into an argument with a fellow with a chest like that.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Just call me Bertie

       "Let Madeline Bassett become hep to what has occurred and there can be but one result. Gussie will get the bum's rush, and the bowed figure you will see shambling down the aisle at her side, while the customers reach for their hats and the organ plays 'The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden' will be that of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster."

    "I didn't know your name was Wilberforce."

    I explained that except in moments of great emotion one hushed it up.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

It tends not to promote romance

There had been moments when it had been touch and go, notably on the occasion when Gussie got lit up like a candelabra and in that condition presented the prizes to the young scholars of Market Snodsbury Grammar School. She had scratched his nomination then, though subsequently relenting, and it could not but be that she could scratch it again, should she discover that the man on whom she looked as a purer, loftier spirit than other men had received an exemplary sentence for wading in the Trafalgar Square fountain. Nothing puts an idealistic girl off a fellow more than the news that he is doing fourteen days in the jug.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Perhaps a standing ovation?

 This came under the head of tidings of great joy. Too often at these binges the Brass Hats in charge tell you off to render the "Yoeman's Wedding Song," which for some reason always arouse the worst passions of the tough eggs who stand behind the back row. But no rustic standees have ever been known not to eat a knockabout cross-talk act. There is something about the spectacle of Performer A sloshing Performer B over the head with an umbrella and Performer B prodding Performer A in the midriff with a similar blunt instrument that seems to speak to their depths. Wearing a green beard and given adequate assistance by my supporting cast, I could confidently anticipate that I should have the clientele rolling in the aisles.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Happy days again

 Even as his lips parted, there was a noise like a rising pheasant from the outskirts, and some solid object left the ranks and hurled itself on Constable Dobbs's chest. Closer inspection showed this to be Queenie. She was clinging to the representative of the Law like a poultice, and from the fact that she was saying, "Oh, Ernie!'" and bedewing his uniform with happy tears I deduced, being pretty shrewd, that what she was trying to convey was that all was forgiven and forgotten and that she was expecting the prompt return of the ring, the letters, and the china ornament with "A Present From Blackpool" on it. And as it did not escape my notice that he, on his side, was covering her upturned face with burning kisses and saying, "Oh, Queenie!" I gathered that Tortured Souls Preferred had taken another upward trend and that one could chalk up to the slate two more sundered hearts reunited in the springtime.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

In short, he is a brat

 This Thos is one of those tough, hardboiled striplings, a sort of juvenile James Cagney with a touch of Edward G. Robinson. He has carroty hair and a cynical expression, and his manner is supercilious. You would think that anyone conscious of having a mother like my Aunt Agatha and knowing it could be proved against him, would be crushed and apologetic, but this is not the case. He swanks about the place as if he'd bought it, and in conversation with a cousin lacks tact and is apt to verge on the personal.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Entirely too cheerful

 Though howling hurricanes and driving rainstorms would have been a more suitable accompaniment to the run of the action, the morning - or morn, if you prefer to string along with Aunt Charlotte - was bright and fair. My nervous system was seriously disordered, and one of God's less likeable creatures with about a hundred and fourteen legs had crawled down the back of my neck and was doing its daily dozen on the sensitive skin, but did Nature care? Not a hoot. The sky continued blue, and the fatheaded sun which I have mentioned shone smilingly throughout.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

The next Baby Ruth

 "Always," he sighed, when John Quincy finished, "I have unlimited yearning for travel." He paused to watch another car draw up before the hotel. "But it are unavailable. I am policeman on small remuneration. In my youth, rambling on evening hillside or by moonly ocean, I dream of more lofty position. Not so now. But that other American citizen, my eldest son, he are dreaming, too. Maybe for him dreams eventuate. Perhaps he become second Baby Ruth, home run emperor, applause of thousands making him deaf. Who knows it?"

(from The House Without a Key, by Earl Derr Biggers)

A bullet doesn't need to have courage

 "He's a friend of Captain Hallet's. Dick Kaohla.

"What do you mean he's a friend of mine?" flared Hallet.

"Well, you certainly treated him pretty tenderly the other night."

I knew what I was doing," said Hallet grouchily. 

"I hope you did. But if he puts a bullet in me some lovely evening, I'm going to be pretty annoyed with you."

"Oh, you're in no danger," Hallet answered. "Only a coward writes anonymous letters."

"Yes, and only a coward shoots from ambush. But that isn't saying he can't take a good aim."

(from The House Without a Key, by Earl Derr Biggers)

Ah, that Hawaiian moonlight!

     The moon, of course, was shining. The cocoa-palms turned their heads away at the suggestion of the trades. The warm waters of Waikiki murmured nearby. John Quincy Winterslip, from Boston and immune, drew the girl to him and kissed her. Not a cousinly kiss, either - but why should it have been? She wasn't his cousin.

(from The House Without a Key, by Earl Derr Biggers)

Not impossible

     "But the man's a gentleman," John Quincy cried. "A captain in the British Admiralty. What you suggest is impossible."

    Chan shook his head. "Impossible in Rear Bay at Boston," he said, "but here at moonly crossroads of Pacific, not so much so. Twenty-five years of my life are consumed in Hawaii, and I have many times been witness when the impossible roused itself and occurred."

(from The House Without a Key, by Earl Derr Biggers)

Wrong school colors

     Greene shook hands cordially. "I've been wanting to meet you, sir," he said. "I know your city rather well. Spent three years at your Harvard Law School."

    "Really?" replied John Quincy with enthusiasm.

    "Yes. I went there after I got through at New Haven. I'm a Yale man, you know."

    "Oh," remarked John Quincy, without any enthusiasm at all. But Greene seemed a pleasant fellow, despite his choice of college.

(from The House Without a Key, by Earl Derr Biggers)

It's kind of old

    "You recognize that, don't you?" he asked.

    "Why - yes - it's - I -"

    "Just stick to the truth," said John Quincy, not unkindly. "It's an old piece of jewelry that Mr. Winterslip gave you, I believe."

    "Well - "

    "You've been seen wearing it, you know."

    "Yes, he did give it to me," she admitted. "The only present I ever got from him. I guess from the look of it Mrs. Noah wore it on the Ark. Kinda pretty, though."

(from The House Without a Key, by Earl Derr Biggers)

You get used to it

     "What, in heaven's name, do you do out here?"

    "Oh, you'll become accustomed to it shortly," Miss Minerva answered. "At first, you just sit and think. After a time, you just sit."

(from A House Without a Key," by Earl Derr Biggers)

Let's work together

     Miss Minerva faced Chan. "The person who did this must be apprehended," she said firmly.

    "He looked at her sleepily. "What is to be, will be," he replied in a high, sing-song voice.

    "I know - that's your Confucius," she snapped. "But it's a do-nothing doctrine, and I don't approve of it."

    A faint smile flickered over Chan's face. "Do not fear, he said. "The fates are busy, and man may do much to assist. I promise you there will be no do-nothing here." He came closer. "Humbly asking pardon to mention it. I detect in your eyes slight flame of hostility. Quench it, if you will be so kind. Friendly cooperation are essential between us." Despite his girth, he managed a deep bow. "Wishing you good morning," he added, and followed Hallet.

(from The House Without a Key, by Earl Derr Biggers)