Wodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville), 1881-1975 / 2008-11-23 00:00:00
Many of my happiest moments
had been those which I had spent champing this great man's roasts and
ragouts, and the prospect of being barred from digging into them in the
future was a numbing one.
"No, I say, dash it!"
"I thought that would rattle you. Greedy young pig."
"Greedy young pigs have nothing to do with it," I said with a touch of
hauteur. "One is not a greedy young pig because one appreciates the
cooking of a genius."
"Well, I will say I like it myself," conceded the relative. "But not
another bite of it do you get, if you refuse to do this simple, easy,
pleasant job. No, not so much as another sniff. So put that in your
twelve-inch cigarette-holder and smoke it."
I began to feel like some wild thing caught in a snare.
"But why do you want me? I mean, what am I? Ask yourself that."
"I often have."
"I mean to say, I'm not the type. You have to have some terrific nib to
give away prizes. I seem to remember, when I was at school, it was
generally a prime minister or somebody."
"Ah, but that was at Eton. At Market Snodsbury we aren't nearly so
choosy. Anybody in spats impresses us."
"Why don't you get Uncle Tom?"
"Uncle Tom!"
"Well, why not? He's got spats.
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