P. G. Wodehouse

“ It was a warm night, and the roof-garden was full. From where they sat they could see the million twinkling lights of the city. Towards the end of the meal, Psmith's gaze concentrated itself on the advertisement of a certain brand of ginger-ale in Times Square. It is a mass of electric light arranged in the shape of a great bottle, and at regular intervals there proceed from the bottle's mouth flashes of flame representing ginger-ale. The thing began to exercise a hypnotic effect on Psmith. He came to himself with a start, to find Billy Windsor in conversation with a waiter. ”

“ Pugsy made it. He emitted a piercing squeal in which pain, fear, and resentment strove for supremacy.
The noise penetrated into the editorial sanctum, losing only a small part of its strength on the way. Psmith, who was at work on a review of a book of poetry, looked up with patient sadness.
"If Comrade Maloney," he said, "is going to take to singing as well as whistling, I fear this journal must put up its shutters. Concentrated thought will be out of the question."
A second squeal rent the air. Billy Windsor jumped up.
"Somebody must be hurting the kid," he exclaimed. ”

“ He—his agent, that is—came to Bat Jarvis."
"The cat-expert?" said Psmith. "A man of singularly winsome personality."
"Bat turned the job down."
"Why was that?" inquired Billy.
"He said he needed the money as much as the next man, but when he found out who he was supposed to lay for, he gave his job the frozen face. Said you were a friend of his and none of his fellows were going to put a finger on you. I don't know what you've been doing to Bat, but he's certainly Willie the Long-Lost Brother with you."
"A powerful argument in favour of kindness to animals!" said Psmith. ”