Explore "Ukridge's Accident Syndicate" by P. G. Wodehouse on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"Half a minute, laddie," said Ukridge. And, gripping my arm, he brought me to a halt on the outskirts of the little crowd which had collected about the church door.
It was a crowd such as may be seen any morning during the London mating-season outside any of the churches which nestle in the quiet squares between Hyde Park and the King's Road, Chelsea.