*    *    *    *    *

When news had reached me through well-informed channels that my Aunt Agatha,
for many years a widow, or derelict, as I believed it is called, was about
to take another pop at matrimony, my first emotion, as was natural in the
circumstances, had been a gentle pity for the unfortunate goop slated to step
up the aisle with her - she, as you are aware, being my tough aunt, the one
who eats broken bottles and conducts human sacrifices by the light of the full moon.

*    *    *    *    *

I emitted a sharp gurgle, and shied like a startled mustang.

*    *    *    *    *

None of the embarrassment which was causing the Wooster toes to curl up inside
their neat suede shoes like the tendrils of some sensitive plant seemed to be
affecting this chunk of the dead past. Her manner, as always, was brisk and aunt-like.

*    *    *    *    *

It's extraordinary how one yields to that fatal temptation to swank.

*    *    *    *    *

I laughed heartily, as is my custom on these occasions, but on his inquiring in a throaty growl
rather like the snarl of the Rocky Mountain timber wolf what the devil I was cackling about,
cheesed the mirth.

*    *    *    *    *

His eyes were rolling in their sockets, and his face had taken on the color and expression
of a devout tomato. I could see he loved like a thousand bricks.

*    *    *    *    *

I don't say I've got much of a soul, but, such as it is, I'm perfectly satisfied with the
little chap. I don't want people fooling about with it. "Leave it alone," I say. "Don't
touch it. I like it the way it is."

*    *    *    *    *

We exchanged a meaning glance. Or, rather, two meaning glances,
I giving him one and he giving me the other.

*    *    *    *    *

On his good mornings, I don't suppose there are more than a handful of men in the W. 1 postal
district of London swifter to spot oompus-boompus than Bertram Wooster, and this was one of
my particularly good mornings. I saw the whole hideous plot.

*    *    *    *    *

A hoarse shout from within and a small china ornament whizzing past
my head informed me that my old friend was at home.

*    *    *    *    *

Aunt Agatha is like an elephant - not so much to look at, for in appearance she
resembles more a well-bred vulture, but because she never forgets.

*    *    *    *    *

It being, however, one of those situations where noblesse more or less obliges,
I decided that I had better do the square thing, and I had torn off my coat and flung it
from me and was preparing to plunge into the burning building, though, still feeling
that it was a bit thick having to get myself all charred up to gratify a kid who
would be far better cooked to a cinder, when he emerged.

*    *    *    *    *

She laughed - a solo effort. Nothing in the prevailing circumstances
made me feel like turning it into a duet.

*    *    *    *    *

"An eccentric young gentleman, Mr. Fittleworth, sir," was his comment as I concluded.
"Loony to the eyebrows," I agreed.

*    *    *    *    *

However devoutly a girl may worship the man of her choice, there always comes a time
when she feels an irresistible urge to haul off and let him have it in the neck.

*    *    *    *    *

"She said I was the tree on which the fruit of her life hung."

*    *    *    *    *

He vanished abruptly, like an eel going into mud...

*    *    *    *    *

He eyed me for a moment as if I had been a caterpillar in some salad
of which he was about to partake.

*    *    *    *    *

He emitted a ringing guffaw, and at the raucous sound any spark of compunction that might
have been lingering in my bosom was quenched. A boy to whom the raising of a lump the size
of a golf ball on the Wooster bean was a subject for heartless mirth deserved all that boot
toe could do to him. For the first time, I found myself contemplating the task before me
with real fire and enthusiasm - almost, as you might say, in a missionary spirit. I mean,
I felt what a world of good a swift kick in the pants would do to this child. It might
prove to be the turning-point in his life.

*    *    *    *    *

I suppose this was really the moment for embarking upon an impassioned defense of Boko,
stressing his admirable qualities. Not being able to think of any, however, I remained silent.

*    *    *    *    *

And not only was he resolved to skin Boko. He stressed in
unmistakable terms his intention of doing it lingeringly and with a blunt knife.

*    *    *    *    *

"Jeeves!" I cried, and clutched him by the coat sleeve, like a lost child hooking on to its mother.

*    *    *    *    *

When Aunt Agate's agitation is pronounced, she has a way of drawing her eyebrows together
and making her nose look like an eagle's beak. Strong man have quailed at the spectacle, repeatedly.

*    *    *    *    *

I dare say you have frequently, when strolling in your garden, seen a parched flower beneath
a refreshing downpour. It was of such a flower that Uncle Mercy now irresistibly reminded me.
He seemed to swell and burgeon, as it were, and the strained eyes lost that resemblance to the
under side of a dead fish which had been so noticeable since the beginning of the sequence.

*    *    *    *    *

The first thing he did on entering the room was to give me one of those looks of his,
and it chilled my insides like a quart of ice cream.

*    *    *    *    *

It was plain that he burned, not with shame and remorse but with the baffled fury of the man who,
while not quite abreast of the run of the scenario, realizes that dirty work is afoot at the
crossroads and that something swift is being slipped across him.

*    *    *    *    *

There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently
on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.

*    *    *    *    *