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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
217
I
assisted
Gussie
down
the
stairs.
A
cooler
thinker
than
Aunt
Dahlia,
I
had
already
guessed
the
hidden
springs
and
motives
which
had
led
him
to
the
roof.
Where
she
had
seen
only
a
cockeyed
reveller
indulging
himself
in
a
drunken
prank
or
whimsy,
I
had
spotted
the
hunted
fawn.
“Was
Tuppy
after
you?”
I
asked
sympathetically.
What
I
believe
is
called
a
frisson
shook
him.
“He
nearly
got
me
on
the
top
landing.
I
shinned
out
through
a
passage
window
and
scrambled
along
a
sort
of
ledge.”
“That
baffled
him,
what?”
“Yes.
But
then
I
found
I
had
stuck.
The
roof
sloped
down
in
all
directions.
I
couldn’t
go
back.
I
had
to
go
on,
crawling
along
this
ledge.
And
then
I
found
myself
looking
down
the
skylight.
Who
was
that
chap?”
“That
was
Anatole,
Aunt
Dahlia’s
chef.”
“French?”
“To
the
core.”
“That
explains
why
I
couldn’t
make
him
understand.
What
asses
these
Frenchmen
are.
They
don’t
seem
able
to
grasp
the
simplest
thing.
You’d
have
thought
if
a
chap
saw
a
chap
on
a
skylight,
the
chap
would
realize
the
chap
wanted
to
be
let
in.
But
no,
he
just
stood
there.”
“Waving
a
few
fists.”
“Yes.
Silly
idiot.
Still,
here
I
am.”
“Here
you
are,
yes--for
the
moment.”
“Eh?”
“I
was
thinking
that
Tuppy
is
probably
lurking
somewhere.”
He
leaped
like
a
lamb
in
springtime.
“What
shall
I
do?”
I
considered
this.
“Sneak
back
to
your
room
and
barricade
the
door.
That
is
the
manly
policy.”
“Suppose
that’s
where
he’s
lurking?”
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