"How are you feeling this morning?" I asked.

"Topping!" replied Motty, blithely and with abandon. "I say, you know,
that fellow of yours--Jeeves, you know--is a corker. I had a most
frightful headache when I woke up, and he brought me a sort of rummy
dark drink, and it put me right again at once. Said it was his own
invention. I must see more of that lad. He seems to me distinctly one
of the ones!"

I couldn't believe that this was the same blighter who had sat and
sucked his stick the day before.

"You ate something that disagreed with you last night, didn't you?" I
said, by way of giving him a chance to slide out of it if he wanted to.
But he wouldn't have it, at any price.

"No!" he replied firmly. "I didn't do anything of the kind. I drank too
much! Much too much. Lots and lots too much! And, what's more, I'm
going to do it again! I'm going to do it every night. If ever you see
me sober, old top," he said, with a kind of holy exaltation, "tap me on
the shoulder and say, 'Tut! Tut!' and I'll apologize and remedy the
defect."

"But I say, you know, what about me?"

"What about you?"

"Well, I'm so to speak, as it were, kind of responsible for you. What I
mean to say is, if you go doing this sort of thing I'm apt to get in
the soup somewhat."