Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves

Sock your flock, and you're sunk.

there would be able to tuck into the beefs and muttons till his ribs squeaked,

like a stevedore loading a grain ship.

'What's all this?' he demanded.
'What's all what?' riposted Stiffy with spirit, and I remember thinking that she rather had him there.
'It's against regulations to talk to the prisoner, Miss.'
'Oates,' said Stiffy, 'you're an ass.'
This was profoundly true, but it seemed to annoy the officer. He resented the charge, and said so, and Stiffy said she didn't want any back chat from him.
'You road company rozzers make me sick. I was only trying to cheer him up.'
It seemed to me that the officer gave a bitter snort, and a moment later he revealed why he had done so.
'It's me that wants cheering up,' he said morosely, 'I've just seen Sir Watkyn and he says he isn't pressing the charge.'
'What!' I cried.
'What!' yipped Stiffy.
'That's what,' said the constable, and you could see that while there was sunshine above, there was none in his heart. I could sympathise with him, of course. Naturally nothing makes a member of the Force sicker than to have a criminal get away from him. He was in rather the same position as some crocodile on the Zambesi or some puma in Brazil would have been, if it had earmarked Plank for its lunch and seen him shin up a high tree.

the smaller the ex-magistrate, the louder the dressing-gown. His was a bright purple number with yellow frogs,

just as dark, if not darker, in the hall. But I was making quite satisfactory progress and was about halfway through the latter, when an unforeseen hitch occurred. I bumped into a human body, the last thing I had expected to encounter en route, and for an instant . . . well, I won't say that everything went black, because everything was black already, but I was considerably perturbed. My heart did one of those spectacular leaps Nijinsky used to do in the Russian Ballet, and I was conscious of a fervent wish that I could have been elsewhere.
Elsewhere, however, being just where I wasn't, I had no option but to grapple with this midnight marauder, and when I did so I was glad to find that he was apparently one who had stunted his growth by smoking

The poet Browning in his Pippa Passes, having established that the hour is seven A.M., goes on to say, "The lark's on the wing, the snail's on the thorn."'

. From sport to sport they hurry me, to stifle my regret—'
'And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget. Th

From sport to sport they hurry me, to stifle my regret—'
'And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget.

Spode fell to earth he knew not where and lay there looking peaceful