“Be quiet!” He heaved somewhat for awhile. “You wretched, miserable idiot,” he said, “kindly inform me which bedroom you are supposed to be occupying.”
“It’s on the floor above. The Clock Room.”
“Thank you. I will find it.”
“Eh?”
He gave me the eyebrow.
“I propose,” he said, “to pass the remainder of the night in your room, where, I presume, there is a bed in a condition to be slept in. You may bestow yourself as comfortably as you can here. I will wish you good night.”
He buzzed off, leaving me flat.
Well, we Woosters are old campaigners. We can take the rough with the smooth. But to say that I liked the prospect now before me would be paltering with the truth. One glance at the bed told me that any idea of sleeping there was out. A goldfish could have done it, but not Bertram. After a bit of a look round, I decided that the best chance of getting a sort of night’s rest was to doss as well as I could in the armchair. I pinched a couple of pillows off the bed, shoved the hearthrug over my knees, and sat down and started counting sheep.
But it wasn’t any good. The old bulb was sizzling much too much to admit of anything in the nature of slumber. This hideous revelation of the blackness of Jeeves’s treachery kept coming back to me every time I nearly succeeded in dropping off; and, what’s more, it seemed to get colder and colder as the long night wore on. I was just wondering if I would ever get to sleep again in this world when a voice at my elbow said, “Good morning, sir,” and I sat up with a jerk.