My Aunt Agatha has crust to end all crusts. One can only goggle at the sang-froid with which she puts across her desires that some poor innocent toad beneath the harrow engage in enterprises of the scaliest. As the Americans would say, bless her heart.
As is often the case, what, what, what, the recent toad beneath the harrow was one Bertie Wooster. “Bertie,” she said, “I wish you to join the Oregon militia stand-off under false pretenses as an informant for the FBI”
“Why, I say,” I said, “dash it. This is the limit. The absolute frozen limit. What earthly reason should I have for embroiling myself in those contretemps?”
She fixed me with her steely gaze. “Because I wish it,” she said. Or perhaps hissed would be the mot juste.
As Jeeves would put it, vowing that I would ne’er consent, I consented.
It was rather jolly. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the great bulk of my fellow militia men were also undercover fellows. It was rather in the nature of a costume party. Next time I shall go as Pierrot.
A good time was had by all and sundry.