'Morning, McAllister,' said Lord Emsworth coldly.
'Good morrrrning, your lorrudsheep.'
There was a pause. Angus McAllister, extending a foot that looked like a violin-case, pressed it on the moss. The meaning of the gesture was plain. It expressed contempt, dislike, a generally anti-moss spirit: and Lord Emsworth, wincing, surveyed the man unpleasantly through his pince-nez. Though not often given to theological speculation, he was wondering why Providence, if obliged to make head-gardeners, had found it necessary to make them so Scotch. In case of Angus McAllister, why, going a step farther, had made him human being at all? All the ingredients of a first-class mule simply thrown away. He felt that he might have liked Angus McAllister if he had been a mule.
Relendo trechos de Wodehouse. Esse talvez seja o melhor de todos. Pode comprar o livro lá na Cultura. O título é o mesmo do do post. E não é caro, é da Penguin. E esta é a sexta frase curta de hoje.