"I say, Jeeves, what bally hour of the day do you call this," I inquired, not a little piqued with the old feudal s. for this, untoward interruption into what Shakespeare has rightly mot justed, as t. n. s. r.
And when I tell you that the previous night had seen not only the annual Drone's dart's tourney (in which without boasting I may say I unleased times winged arrow like mother's little cupid) but also the betroval of Percy 'Mr Pasty' Cuttermold to Florinda Sangreal thereby removing one of the most dangerously betroval-minded fillies from the set of man-traps agap who infest the metrolp in the Summer months, you may be sure that what tired nature profoundly wished was sweet restorer and lots of it.
A glance at the old hands of the bedside clock informed me, that if it hadn't bust its springs it was only a thin cat's whisker past ten o'clock. I mean ten o'clock. I'd only rolled home at five, and that because with the best will in the world the flesh grows a trifle weaker with the giddy onrush of the 20th C.
"I'm an sorry to awaken you, sir." Jeeves, remarked placing silently a glass of his patent sweet restorer on the mahog dressing table, 'but you will recall you left strict instructions that you were not to be permitted to sleep in if any threatened bomb-outrages were to come to light.'
Well I must say I hummphed, and hawed. If hawed is the word I want. These wouldbe civilisation wrecking blighters be they of the Red, Yellow, or indeed the Black Shorted persuation, seemed to have thrown the infant niceties of polite behaviour out with the bathtub of not terrorising the innocent. Was there any gain to be made by issuing their demands before elevenses? Really?
From 'Bertie Wooster in "24" '
By P G Weirdhouse