The inimitable Jeeves

sir.’
    ‘This is the jolliest thing that’s happened since we left England. It looks to me as if the sun were breaking through the clouds.’
    ‘Very possibly, sir.’
    He started to put out my things, and there was an awkward sort of silence.
    ‘Not those socks, Jeeves,’ I said, gulping a bit but having a dash at the careless, off-hand tone. ‘Give me the purple ones.’
    ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
    ‘Those jolly purple ones.’
    ‘Very good, sir.’
    He lugged them out of the drawer as if he were a vegetarian fishing a caterpillar out of the salad. You could see he was feeling deeply. Deuced painful and all that, this sort of thing, but a chappie has got to assert himself every now and then. Absolutely.

    I was looking for Cyril to show up again any time after breakfast, but he didn’t appear: so towards one o’clock I trickled out to the Lambs Club, where I had an appointment to feed the Wooster face with a cove of the name of Caffyn I’d got pally with since my arrival - George Caffyn, a fellow who wrote plays and what not. I’d made a lot of friends during my stay in New York, the city being crammed with bonhomous lads who one and all extended a welcoming hand to the stranger in their midst.
    Caffyn was a bit late, but bobbed up finally, saying that he had been kept at a rehearsal of his new musical comedy, Ask Dad; and we started in. We had just reached the coffee, when the waiter came up and said that Jeeves wanted to see me.
    Jeeves was in the waiting-room. He gave the socks one pained look as I came in, then averted his eyes.
    ‘Mr Bassington-Bassington has just telephoned, sir.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘In prison, sir.’
    I reeled against the wallpaper. A nice thing to happen to Aunt Agatha’s nominee on his first morning under my wing, I did not think!
    ‘In prison!’
    ‘Yes, sir. He said on the telephone that he had been arrested and would be glad if you could step round and bail him out.’
    ‘Arrested! What for?’
    ‘He did not favour me with his confidence in that respect, sir.’
    ‘This is a bit thick, Jeeves.’
    ‘Precisely, sir.’
    I collected old George, who very decently volunteered to stagger along with me, and we hopped into a taxi. We sat around at the police station for a bit on a wooden bench in a sort of ante-room, and presently a policeman appeared, leading in Cyril.
    ‘Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!’ I said. ‘What?’
    My experience is that a fellow never really looks his best just after he’s come out of a cell. When I was up at Oxford, I used to have a regular job bailing out a pal of mine who never failed to get pinched every Boat Race night, and he always looked like something that had been dug up by the roots. Cyril was in pretty much the same sort of shape. He had a black eye and a torn collar, and altogether was nothing to write home about - especially if one was writing to Aunt Agatha. He was a thin, tall chappie with a lot of light hair and pale-blue goggly eyes which made him look like one of the rarer kinds of fish.
    ‘I got your message,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, are you Bertie Wooster?’
    ‘Absolutely. And this is my pal George Caffyn. Writes plays and what not, don’t you know.’
    We all shook hands, and the policeman, having retrieved a piece of chewing-gum from the underside of a chair, where he had parked it against a rainy day, went off into a corner and began to contemplate the infinite.
    ‘This is a rotten country,’ said Cyril.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know, you know, don’t you know!’ I said.
    ‘We do our best,’ said George.
    ‘Old George is an American,’ I explained. ‘Writes plays, don’t you know, and what not.’
    ‘Of course, I didn’t invent the country,’ said George. ‘That was Columbus. But I shall be delighted to consider any improvements you may suggest and lay them before the proper authorities.’
    ‘Well, why don’t the policemen in New York dress properly?’
    George took a look at the chewing officer across the room.
    ‘I don’t see anything missing,’ he said.
    ‘I mean to say, why don’t they they wear helmets like they do in London? Why do they look like postmen? It isn’t fair on a fellow. Makes it dashed confusing. I was simply standing on the pavement, looking at things, when a fellow who looked like a postman prodded me in the ribs with a club. I didn’t see why I should have postmen prodding me. Why the dickens should a fellow come three thousand miles to be prodded by