The Little Nugget. P. G. Wodehouse

took the allusion to be to Mr. Arnold Abney, and thought it rather a happy one.

      'He's the boss, and nobody but him is allowed to hit the fellows. If you tried it, you'd lose your job. And he ain't going to, because the Dad's paying double fees, and he's scared stiff he'll lose me if there's any trouble.'

      'You seem to have a grasp of the position.'

      'Bet your life I have.'

      I looked at him as he sprawled in the chair.

      'You're a funny kid,' I said.

      He stiffened, outraged. His little eyes gleamed.

      'Say, it looks to me as if you wanted making a head shorter. You're a darned sight too fresh. Who do you think you are, anyway?'

      'I'm your guardian angel,' I replied. 'I'm the fellow who's going to take you in hand and make you a little ray of sunshine about the home. I know your type backwards. I've been in America and studied it on its native asphalt. You superfatted millionaire kids are all the same. If Dad doesn't jerk you into the office before you're out of knickerbockers, you just run to seed. You get to think you're the only thing on earth, and you go on thinking it till one day somebody comes along and shows you you're not, and then you get what's coming to you—good and hard.'