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Wodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville), 1881-1975

"My Man Jeeves"

I call it rotten work, springing unexpected
offspring on a fellow at the eleventh hour like this."
"Why, you chump," I said, "it's going to save you. This lets you out of
your spectacular dash across the frontier. All you've got to do is to
stay here and be your brother Alfred. It came to me in a flash."
He looked at me in a kind of dazed way.
"You ought to be in some sort of a home, Reggie."
"Ass!" I cried. "Don't you understand? Have you ever heard of
twin-brothers who weren't exactly alike? Who's to say you aren't
Alfred if you swear you are? Your uncle will be there to back you
up that you have a brother Alfred."
"And Alfred will be there to call me a liar."
"He won't. It's not as if you had to keep it up for the rest of your
life. It's only for an hour or two, till we can get this detective
off the yacht. We sail for England to-morrow morning."
At last the thing seemed to sink into him. His face brightened.
"Why, I really do believe it would work," he said.
"Of course it would work. If they want proof, show them your mole. I'll
swear George hadn't one."
"And as Alfred I should get a chance of talking to Stella and making
things all right for George. Reggie, old top, you're a genius."
"No, no."
"You _are_."
"Well, it's only sometimes. I can't keep it up."
And just then there was a gentle cough behind us.


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