Right Ho, Jeeves

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?”