Could there be greater proof of P.G. Wodehouse's genius for words than the fact that this book is anything but dead? Who - even if golf bores him pallid (as it bored Miss Forrester) - can resist the incompetent Peter, 'who had twice hit the United Kingdom with his mashie in mistake for the ball'; or the temperamental Mitchell Holmes, who 'missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows'; or that get-ahead tycoon, Vincent Jopp, who set himself to win the American Amateur and corener wheat on the same day, and nearly did.
'Golf, like measles, should be caught young,' as the Oldest Member remarked in one of his case-histories. But P.G. Wodehouse can be caught at any age and is almost always fatal.
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