by P. G. Wodehouse (Author)
"Jeeves," I said that evening. "I'm getting a check suit like that one of Mr. Byng's." "Injudicious, sir," he said firmly. "It will not become you." "What absolute rot It's the soundest thing I've struck for years." "Unsuitable for you, sir." Well, the long and the short of it was that the confounded thing came home, and I put it on, and when I caught sight of myself in the glass I nearly swooned. Jeeves was perfectly right. I looked a cross between a music-hall comedian and a cheap bookie. Yet Monty had looked fine in absolutely the same stuff. These things are just Life's mysteries, and that's all there is to it. But it isn't only that Jeeves's judgment about clothes is infallible, though, of course, that's really the main thing. The man knows everything. There was the matter of that tip on the "Lincolnshire." I forget now how I got it, but it had the aspect of being the real, red-hot tabasco;