He floated noise­lessly through the door. this fel­low didn’t seem to Have any feet

Ber­tie Wooster and his but­ler get to­gether in Wode­house’s 1916 story, Jeeves Takes Charge. This is the mo­ment when a spe­cial han­gover cure seals the deal

The Sunday Post (Dundee) - - NEWS -

I crawled off the sofa and opened the door. A kind of dark­ish sort of re­spect­ful John­nie stood with­out.

“I was sent by the agency, sir,” he said. “I was given to un­der­stand that you re­quired a valet.”

I’d have pre­ferred an un­der­taker; but I told him to stag­ger in, and he floated noise­lessly through the door­way like a heal­ing zephyr.

That im­pressed me from the start. Mead­ows had had flat feet and used to clump. This fel­low didn’t seem to have any feet at all. He just

streamed in. He had a grave, sym­pa­thetic face, as if he, too, knew what it was to sup with the lads.

“Ex­cuse me, sir,” he said gen­tly. Then he seemed to flicker, and wasn’t there any longer.

I heard him mov­ing about in the kitchen, and presently he came back with a glass on a tray.

“If you would drink this, sir,” he said, with a kind of bed­side man­ner, rather like

the royal doc­tor shoot­ing the bracer into the sick prince. It is a lit­tle prepa­ra­tion of my own in­ven­tion. It is the Worcester Sauce that gives it its colour.

“The raw egg makes it nu­tri­tious. The red pep­per gives it its bite. Gen­tle­men have told me they have found it ex­tremely in­vig­o­rat­ing af­ter a late evening.”

I would have clutched at any­thing that looked like a life­line that morn­ing. I swal­lowed the stuff.

For a mo­ment I felt as if some­body had touched off a bomb in­side the old bean and was strolling down my throat with a lighted torch, and then ev­ery­thing seemed sud­denly to get all right.

The sun shone in through the win­dow; birds twit­tered in the tree-tops; and, gen­er­ally speak­ing, hope dawned once more.

“You’re en­gaged!” I said, as soon as I could say any­thing.

The books have sold by the mil­lion

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