In your walks about London you will sometimes see bent, haggard figures that look as if they had recently been caught in some powerful machinery. They are those fellows who got mixed up with Catsmeat when he was meaning well.

Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.

Say what you will, there is something fine about our old aristocracy. I'll bet Trotsky couldn't hit a moving secretary with an egg on a dark night.

Some minds are like soup in a poor restaurant—better left unstirred.

The stationmaster's whiskers are of a Victorian bushiness and give the impression of having been grown under glass.

If there is one thing I dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when I wish to air mine.

In your walks about London you will sometimes see bent, haggard figures that look as if they had recently been caught in some powerful machinery. They are those fellows who got mixed up with Catsmeat when he was meaning well.