Stick with the Emsworth Arms

 The advice one would give to every young man starting life is, on arriving in Market Blandings on a warm afternoon, to go to the Emsworth Arms. Good stuff may be bought there, and of all the admirable hostelries in the town it possesses the largest and shadiest garden. Green and inviting, dotted about with rustic tables and snug summerhouses, it stretches all the way down to the banks of the river; so that the happy drinker, already pleasantly in need of beer, may acquire a new and deeper thirst from watching family parties toil past in rowboats. On a really sultry day a single father, labouring at the oars of a raft loaded down below the Plimsoll mark by a wife, a wife's sister, a cousin by marriage, four children, a dog, and a picnic basket, has sometimes led to such a rush of business at the Emsworth Arms that seasoned barmaids have staggered beneath the strain.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

The Pelican Club

 In Lord Emsworth's eyes, as he gazed at his brother, there was the reverential look of a disciple at the feet of his master. He had always known, he told himself, that as a practical adviser in matters having to do with the seamier side of life the other was unsurpassed. It was the result, he supposed of the environment in which he had spent his formative years. Membership of the old Pelican Club might not elevate a man socially, but there was no doubt about its educative properties. If it dulled the moral sense, it undoubtedly sharpened the intellect.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

A non-dieter

 Between Empress of Blandings and these two human beings who ministered to her comfort there was a sharp contrast in physique. Lord Emsworth was tall and thin and scraggy, Pirbright tall and thin and scraggier. The Empress, on the other hand, could have passed in a dim light for a captive balloon, fully inflated and about to make its trial trip. The modern craze for slimming had found no votary in her. She liked her meals large and regular, and had never done a educing exercise in her life.

(from Heavy Weather, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Take a chair

     And a moment late in came a bloke. Obviously not the Colonel, for Myrtle and the O.B.E. gave no sign of recognition. Then who? The man was a perfect stranger to me. However, I played the host.

    "Good afternoon," I said, affably.

    "Afternoon," said the bloke.

    "Take a chair," I said.

    "I'm going to take all the chairs," he said. "And the sofa, too. I'm from the Mammoth Furnishing Company, and the cheque for the deposit on this stuff has been returned Refer to Drawer."

    It is not too much to say, Corky, that I reeled. Yes, laddie, your old friend tottered and would have fallen had he not clutched at a chair. And, from the look in the bloke's eyes, it began to seem that my chances of clutching at that particular chair were likely to be very soon a thing of the past.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Just get it open!

     "Go on! What are you waiting for?" I fumbled at the handle.

    "I don't seem to be able to get the door open," I explained meekly.

    "Tchah!" said Miss Ukridge, swooping down. One of the rooted convictions of each member of the human race is that he or she is able without difficulty to open a door which has baffled their fellows. She took the handle and gave it a vigorous tug. The door creaked, gut remained unresponsive.

    "What's the matter with the thing?" exclaimed Mis Ukridge petulantly.

    "It's stuck."

    "I know it's stuck. Please do something at once. Good gracious, Mr. Corcoran, surely you are at least able to open a drawing-room door."

    It seemed, put in that tone of voice, a feat sufficiently modest for a man of good physique and fair general education; but I was reluctantly compelled to confess, after a few more experiments, that it was beyond my powers. This appeared to confirm my hostess in the opinion, long held by her, that I was about the most miserable worm that an inscrutable Providence had ever permitted to enter the world.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Thrown out on my ear again

    You know the position of affairs when I go to live with my Aunt Julia. She feeds me and buys me clothes, but for some reason best known to her own distorted mind it is impossible to induce her to part with a little ready cash. The consequence was that, falling in love with Mabel as I had done and needing a quid or two for current expenses, I had had to rely on my native ingenuity and resource. It was absolutely imperative that I should give the girl a few flowers and chocolates from time to time, and this runs into money. So, seeing a rather juicy clock doing nothing on the mantelpiece of the spare bedroom, I had sneaked it off under my coat and put it up the spout at the local pawnbroker's. And now, apparently, in some devious and underhanded manner she had discovered this.

    Well, it was no good arguing. When my Aunt Julia is standing over you with her sleeves rolled up preparatory to getting a grip on the scruff of your neck and the seat of your trousers, it has always been my experience that words are useless. The only thing to do is to drift away and trust to Time, the great healer. Some forty minutes later, therefore, a solitary figure might have been observed legging it to the station with a suitcase. I was out in the great world once more.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Get it over with!

 Of all the uncounted millions who in their time have listened to bands playing "Poet and Peasant," few can ever have listened with such a restless impatience as did Frederick Fitch-Fitch on this occasion. Time was flying. Every second was precious. At any moment disaster might befall. And the band went on playing as if it had taken on a life-job. It seemed to him an eternity before the final oom-pom-pa.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

He obviously wanted two girlfriends

     "Oh, Freddie!" she cried. "The worst has happened."

    Freddie gulped. "Rackstraw?"

    "Yes," said Annabel. "But how did you know about him?"

    "He came to me, bubbling over a good deal with veiled menaces and what not," explained Freddie. He frowned, and eyed her closely. "Why didn't you tell me you had been engaged to that bird?"

    "I didn't think you would be interested. It was just a passing girlish fancy."

    "You're sure? You didn't really love this blighted prestidigitator?"

    "No, no. I was dazzled for a while, as any girl might have been when he sawed me in half, but then you came along and I saw that I had been mistaken, and that you were the only man in the world for me."

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Invalidic arrogance

 For though few people are aware of it - so true is it that half the world does not know how the other half lives - there is no section of the community in which class-consciousness is so rampant as among invalids. The ancient Spartans, one gathers, were far more cordial towards their Helots, and the French aristocrat of pre-Revolution days tended to be a little stand-offish with his tenantry, but their attitude was almost back-slapping compared with that of - let us say - the man who has been out in Switzerland taking insulin for his diabetes towards one who is simply undergoing treatment from the village doctor for an ingrowing toenail. And this was particularly so, of course, in those places where invalids collect in gangs - Baden-Baden, for example, or Hot Springs, Virginia, or, as in Sir Aylmer's case, Droitgate Spa.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Why beetles?

 "A frown darkened her brow, and she kicked petulantly at a passing beetle." (from Eggs Beans and Crumpets)

We find expressions similar to this occasionally in the writings of Sir Pelham Wodehouse. This raises the question, Did the author carry a grudge against beetles? Had he had a particularly disturbing confrontation with one in his childhood? One wonders.

Spend money? Me?!

     "Stamps" he said. "Yes, I am always ready to add to my collection, provided that what I am offered is of value and the price reasonable. Had you any figure in mind for these of yours, my dear Mulliner?"

    Anselm said that he had been thinking of something in the neighbourhood of five thousand pounds, and Sir Leopold shook from stem to stern like a cat that has received half a brick in the short ribs. All his life the suggestion that he should part with large sums of money had shocked him.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

It is possible to be both

    "They were engaged?" asked the Stout and Mild, beginning to get it.

    "Secretly. Anselm did not dare to inform her uncle of the position of affairs, because all he had to marry on was his meagre stipend. He feared the wrath of that millionaire philatelist."

    "Millionaire what?" asked a Small Bass.

    "Sir Leopold," explained Mr. Mulliner, "collected stamps."

    The Small Bass said that he had always thought that a philatelist was a man who was kind to animals.

    "No," said Mr. Mulliner, "a stamp collector. Though many philatelists are, I believe, also kind to animals."

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse0

No enthusiasm for the proposal

     "Could you lend me a tenner, Oofy, old man?"

    "No, I couldn't."

    "It would save my life."

    "There," said Oofy, "you have put your finger on the insuperable objection to the scheme. I see no percentage in your being alive. I wish you were a corpse, preferably a mangled one. I should like to dance on your remains."

    Bingo was surprised. "Dance on my remains?"

    "All over them."

    Bingo drew himself up. He had his pride.

    "Oh?" he said. "Well, in that case, tinkerty tonk."

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

He's OK

 Mrs. Bingo's Pekes were all in bed when he got there, and when he went and sprang the little stranger on them he was delighted with the ready affability with which they made him one of themselves. Too often, when you introduce a ringer into a gaggle of Pekes, there ensues a scrap like New Year's Eve in Madrid; but tonight, after a certain amount of tentative sniffing, the home team issued their OK, and he left them all curled up in their baskets like so many members of the Athenaeum.

(from Eggs, Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Doing himself well

 Well, as it turned out, Oofy's appetite was the reverse of blunted. The extraordinary position in which he found himself - guest and not host to a fellow-member of the Drones - seemed to have put an edge on it. It is not too much to say that from the very outset he ate like a starving python. The light, casual way in which he spoke to the head waiter about hothouse grapes and asparagus froze Bingo to the marrow. And when - from force of habit, no doubt - he called for the wine list and ordered a nice, dry champagne, it began to look to Bingo as if the bill for this binge was going to resemble something submitted to Congress by President Roosevelt in aid of the American Farmer.

(from Eggs, Beans, and Crumpets by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Those ganglions again!

     "Ah-hum!" said Mr. Pickering

    The effect on Lord Wetherby was remarkable. To hear someone clear his throat at the back of a dark room, where there should rightfully be no throat to be cleared, would cause even your man of stolid habit a passing thrill. The thing got right in among Lord Wetherby's highly sensitive ganglions like an earthquake. He uttered a strangled cry, then dashed out and slammed the door behind him.

(from Uneasy Money, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

I only did what cats do

At the right time and in the right frame of mind man is capable of stoic endurances that excite wonder and admiration. Mr. Pickering was no weakling. He had once upset his automobile in a ditch, and had waited for twenty minutes until help came to relieve a broken arm, and he had done it without a murmur. But on the present occasion there was a difference. His mind was not adjusted for the occurrence. There are times when it is unseasonable to touch a man on the leg. This was a moment when it was unseasonable in the case of Mr. Pickering. He bounded silently into the air, his whole being rent asunder as by a cataclysm.

He had been holding his revolver in his hand as a protection against nameless terrors, and as he leaped he pulled the trigger. Then with the automatic instinct for self-preservation, he sprang back into the bushes, and began to push his way through them until he had reached a safe distance from the danger zone.

James, the cat, meanwhile, hurt at the manner in which his friendly move had been received, had taken refuge on the outhouse roof. He mewed complainingly, a puzzled note in his voice. Mr. Pickering's behaviour had been one of those things that no fellow can understand. The whole thing seemed inexplicable.

(from Uneasy Money, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

But not monkeys!

But of the other members of the party, Dudley Pickering was unhappy because he feared that burglars were about to raid the house; Roscoe Sherriff because he feared they were not; Claire because, now that the news of the engagement was out, it seemed to be everybody's aim to leave her alone with Mr. Pickering, whose undiluted society tended to pall. And Lord Wetherby was unhappy because he found Eustace, the monkey, a perpetual strain upon his artistic nerves. It was Eustace who had driven him to his shack in the woods. He could have painted far more comfortably in the house, but Eustace had developed a habit of stealing up to him and plucking the leg of his trousers; and an artist simply cannot give of his best with that sort of thing going on.

(from Uneasy Money, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Low on the acetylene of love

 Dudley Pickering was not a self-starter in the motordrome of love. He needed cranking. He was that most unpromising of matrimonial material, a shy man with a cautious disposition. If he overcame his shyness, caution applied the foot-brake. If he succeeded in forgetting caution, shyness shut off the gas. At Reigelheimer's some miracle had made him not only reckless but un-selfconscious. Possibly the Dream of Psyche had gone to his head. At any rate, he had been on the very verge of proposing to Claire when the interruption had occurred, and in bed that night, reviewing the affair, he had been appalled at the narrowness of his escape from taking a definite step. Except in the way of business, he was a man who hated definite steps. He never accepted even a dinner invitation without subsequent doubts and remorse. The consequence was that, in the days that followed the Reigelheimer episode, what Lord Wetherby would have called the lamp of love burned rather low in Mr. Pickering, as if the acetylene were running out.

(from Uneasy Money, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Don't argue with bees

     "Don't you wear a veil for this sort of job?"

    As a rule Elizabeth did. She had reached a stage of intimacy with her bees which rendered a veil a superfluous precaution, but until today she had never abandoned it. Her view of the matter was that, though the inhabitants of the hives were familiar and friendly with her by this time and recognized that she came among them without hostile intent, it might well happen that among so many thousands there might be one slow-witted enough and obtuse enough not to have grasped this fact. And in such an event a veil was better than any amount of explanations, for you cannot stick to pure reasons when quarrelling with bees.

(from Uneasy Money, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)