JEEVES: Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir, has been a frequent caller.

I stared. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that I gaped.

"Mr. Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't mean Mr. Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes, sir."

"But Mr. Fink-Nottle's not in London?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm blowed."

And I'll tell you why I was blowed. I found it scarcely possible to give
credence to his statement. This Fink-Nottle, you see, was one of those
freaks you come across from time to time during life's journey who can't
stand London. He lived year in and year out, covered with moss, in a
remote village down in Lincolnshire, never coming up even for the Eton
and Harrow match. And when I asked him once if he didn't find the time
hang a bit heavy on his hands, he said, no, because he had a pond in his
garden and studied the habits of newts.

I couldn't imagine what could have brought the chap up to the great city.
I would have been prepared to bet that as long as the supply of newts
didn't give out, nothing could have shifted him from that village of his.