“You’ve got something up your sleeve?”
“I have, sir.”
“Red-hot?”
“That precisely describes it, sir. I think I may confidently assert that we have the winner of the Choir Boys’ Handicap under this very roof, sir. Harold, the page-boy.”
“Page-boy? Do you mean the tubby little chap in buttons one sees bobbing about here and there? Why, dash it, Jeeves, nobody has a greater respect for your knowledge of form than I have, but I’m hanged if I can see Harold catching the judge’s eye. He’s practically circular, and every time I’ve seen him he’s been leaning up against something, half asleep.”
“He receives thirty yards, sir, and could win from scratch. The boy is a flier.”
“How do you know?”
Jeeves coughed, and there was a dreamy look in his eye.
“I was as much astonished as yourself, sir, when I first became aware of the lad’s capabilities. I happened to pursue him one morning with the intention of fetching him a clip on the side of the head——”
“Great Scott, Jeeves! You!”