What Ho!: The Best of Wodehouse
P. G. Wodehouse
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We all know Jeeves and Wooster, but which is the best Jeeves story? We all know Blandings, but which is the funniest tale about Lord Emsworth and his adored prize-winning pig? And would the best of Ukridge, or the yarns of the Oldest Member, or Wodehouse's Hollywood stories outdo them? This bumper anthology allows you to choose, bringing you the cream of the crop of stories by the twentieth century's greatest humorous writer.
There are favourites aplenty in this selection, which has been compiled with enthusiastic support from P.G. Wodehouse societies around the world. With additional material including novel-extracts, working drafts, articles, letters and poems, this anthology provides the best overall celebration of side-splitting humour and sheer good nature available in the pages of any book.
warmly, ‘are they haughty? Only earls have a right to be haughty. Earls are hot stuff. When you get an earl, you’ve got something.’ ‘Besides, we’ve had words. Me and her father. One thing led to another, and in the end I called him a perishing old – Coo!’ said the pink chap, breaking off suddenly. He had been standing by the window, and he now leaped lissomely into the middle of the room, causing Pongo, whose nervous system was by this time definitely down among the wines and spirits and who
as Psmith informed Mike, put the lid on it. Mike would some times stroll round to the Postage Department to listen to the conversations between the two. Bristow was always friendliness itself. He habitually addressed Psmith as Smithy, a fact which entertained Mike greatly but did not seem to amuse Psmith to any overwhelming extent. On the other hand, when, as he generally did, he called Mike ‘Mister Cricketer’, the humour of the thing appeared to elude Mike, though the mode of address always
it with glue or something, and anyway, you’re probably better without it. Yessir, I’ve hit on a great scheme. The idea of a thousand years.’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘I’m going to train dogs.’ ‘Train dogs?’ ‘For the music-hall stage. Dog acts, you know. Performing dogs. Pots of money in it. I start in a modest way with these six. When I’ve taught ’em a few tricks, I sell them to a fellow in the profession for a large sum and buy twelve more. I train those, sell ’em for a large sum, and with the money
Hollywood Boulevard, he knew, there was a place where, if you knocked twice and whistled ‘My Country, ’tis of thee’, a grille opened and a whiskered face appeared. The Face said ‘Well?’ and you said ‘Service and Co-operation’, and then the door was unbarred and you saw before you the primrose path that led to perdition. And as this was precisely what, in his present mood, Wilmot most desired to locate, you will readily understand how it came about that, some hour and a half later, he was seated
been one of perfect contentment and tranquillity, and for once in a way Angus McAllister had done nothing to disturb it. Too often, when you tried to reason with that human mule, he had a way of saying ‘Mphm’ and looking Scotch and then saying ‘Grmph’ and looking Scotch again, and after that just fingering his beard and looking Scotch without speaking, which was intensely irritating to a sensitive employer. But this afternoon Hollywood yes-men could have taken his correspondence course, and Lord