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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
215
“Go
away,
you
crazy
loon!”
cried
Aunt
Dahlia,
in
that
ringing
voice
of
hers
which
had
once
caused
nervous
members
of
the
Quorn
to
lose
stirrups
and
take
tosses
from
the
saddle.
Gussie’s
reply
was
to
waggle
his
eyebrows.
I
could
read
the
message
he
was
trying
to
convey.
“I
think
he
means,”
I
said--reasonable
old
Bertram,
always
trying
to
throw
oil
on
the
troubled
w’s----“that
if
he
does
he
will
fall
down
the
side
of
the
house
and
break
his
neck.”
“Well,
why
not?”
said
Aunt
Dahlia.
I
could
see
her
point,
of
course,
but
it
seemed
to
me
that
there
might
be
a
nearer
solution.
This
skylight
happened
to
be
the
only
window
in
the
house
which
Uncle
Tom
had
not
festooned
with
his
bally
bars.
I
suppose
he
felt
that
if
a
burglar
had
the
nerve
to
climb
up
as
far
as
this,
he
deserved
what
was
coming
to
him.
“If
you
opened
the
skylight,
he
could
jump
in.”
The
idea
got
across.
“Seppings,
how
does
this
skylight
open?”
“With
a
pole,
madam.”
“Then
get
a
pole.
Get
two
poles.
Ten.”
And
presently
Gussie
was
mixing
with
the
company,
Like
one
of
those
chaps
you
read
about
in
the
papers,
the
wretched
man
seemed
deeply
conscious
of
his
position.
I
must
say
Aunt
Dahlia’s
bearing
and
demeanour
did
nothing
to
assist
toward
a
restored
composure.
Of
the
amiability
which
she
had
exhibited
when
discussing
this
unhappy
chump’s
activities
with
me
over
the
fruit
salad,
no
trace
remained,
and
I
was
not
surprised
that
speech
more
or
less
froze
on
the
Fink-Nottle
lips.
It
isn’t
often
that
Aunt
Dahlia,
normally
as
genial
a
bird
as
ever
encouraged
a
gaggle
of
hounds
to
get
their
noses
down
to
it,
lets
her
angry
passions
rise,
but
when
she
does,
strong
men
climb
trees
and
pull
them
up
after
them.
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