Right Ho, Jeeves

“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.