P. G. Wodehouse

“ Noblesse oblige, Spike. We of the old aristocracy mustn't do these things. We should get ourselves talked about.”
Spike sat silent, with a long face. Jimmy slapped him on the shoulder.
“After all,” he said, “living honestly may be the limit, for all we know. Numbers of people do it, I've heard, and enjoy themselves tremendously. We must give it a trial, Spike. We'll go out together and see life. Pull yourself together and be cheerful, Spike.” ”

“ A black tail coat, burst at the elbows, stained with mud, was tightly buttoned across his chest. This evidently with the idea of concealing the fact that he wore no shirt—an attempt which was not wholly successful. ”

“ An' sleepin' in de park.”
“Well, you needn't sleep in the park any more, Spike. You can pitch your moving tent with me. And you'll want some clothes. We'll get those to-morrow. You're the sort of figure they can fit off the peg. You're not too tall, which is a good thing.”
“Bad t'ing for me, Mr. Chames. If I'd bin taller I'd have stood tor being a New York cop, and bin buying a brownstone house on Fifth Avenue by this. It's de cops makes de big money in old Manhattan, dat's who it 1s.”
“You're right there,” said Jimmy. ”