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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
179
It
was
a
dashed
tricky
thing,
of
course,
to
have
to
decide
on
the
spur
of
the
moment.
I
was
reading
in
the
paper
the
other
day
about
those
birds
who
are
trying
to
split
the
atom,
the
nub
being
that
they
haven’t
the
foggiest
as
to
what
will
happen
if
they
do.
It
may
be
all
right.
On
the
other
hand,
it
may
not
be
all
right.
And
pretty
silly
a
chap
would
feel,
no
doubt,
if,
having
split
the
atom,
he
suddenly
found
the
house
going
up
in
smoke
and
himself
torn
limb
from
limb.
So
with
the
bearded
bloke.
Whether
he
was
abreast
of
the
inside
facts
in
Gussie’s
case,
I
don’t
know,
but
it
was
obvious
to
him
by
this
time
that
he
had
run
into
something
pretty
hot.
Trial
gallops
had
shown
that
Gussie
had
his
own
way
of
doing
things.
Those
interruptions
had
been
enough
to
prove
to
the
perspicacious
that
here,
seated
on
the
platform
at
the
big
binge
of
the
season,
was
one
who,
if
pushed
forward
to
make
a
speech,
might
let
himself
go
in
a
rather
epoch-making
manner.
On
the
other
hand,
chain
him
up
and
put
a
green-baize
cloth
over
him,
and
where
were
you?
The
proceeding
would
be
over
about
half
an
hour
too
soon.
It
was,
as
I
say,
a
difficult
problem
to
have
to
solve,
and,
left
to
himself,
I
don’t
know
what
conclusion
he
would
have
come
to.
Personally,
I
think
he
would
have
played
it
safe.
As
it
happened,
however,
the
thing
was
taken
out
of
his
hands,
for
at
this
moment,
Gussie,
having
stretched
his
arms
and
yawned
a
bit,
switched
on
that
pebble-beached
smile
again
and
tacked
down
to
the
edge
of
the
platform.
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