GOOFS" ON THE GREEN
The Heart of a Goof. By P. G. Wodehouse, (Jenkins. 7s. 6d.) THE fun never flags in these new Wodehouse golfing stories and there is never anything, however farcical, that is not anchored in human nature.
When the American millionaire, Bradbury Fisher; wrenches. a leg off a Boule table, to show his wife—" I'm here, see, about fifteen feet off the green. The other fellow lying dead and I'm playing the like. Best I could hope for was a half, you'll say, eh ? Well listen, I just walked up to that little white ball, and gave it' a little flick and believe me or believe me not, that little white ball never stopped running till it plunked, into the hole," we can -not only hear him talking, but share in the triumph of his cup-winning round. It is the same with all these extravaganzas of the links ; we complete each round in a gale of high spirits, and on the way we have not only hugely enjoyed ourselves but seen things also, which in spite of their meditated exaggeration are true to life, as indeed golf is true to life.
In The Heart of a Goof perhaps the best story is " Jane Gets pff the Fairway," and although the style is inimitable, a brief sketch of it may serve to show the quality of the book.
This is an old theme, 'managed in a new way. Jane, then, had fallen in love with a high-brow boy called Rodney Spelvin (we summarize the story in the language of the Oldest Member), but at the last moment decided to marry William Bates, an unromantic sort of chap, but with a scratch handicap, who loved her devotedly. Now Jane was the sort of girl who would get madder than a wet hen if the anniversary of her wedding day was forgotten. But Bates, knowing himself to be an absent-minded fellow, arranged with a florist to send her a bunch of white violets regularly, on their wedding day, and paid for five years in advance. Well, when the first glad day came round, not a yip did Bates let out about it at breakfast. " William," said Jane, and her voice trembled a .little, ".what day is to-day ? " William looked at her over_ the paper, surprised. " Wednesday, old girl," he replied. '.Don't you remember that yesterday was Tuesday ? Shocking memory you've got." And later, " Jane," he said- suddenly, " there's -something I want to tell you." "Yes ? " said Jane, her heart beginning to flutter. " Something important ? 7 " Yes. It's about these sausages. They are the very best," said William earnestly, " that I've ever bitten. Where did, you get them ? " " From Brown- low." " Stick to him," said William.
Jane wandered out into the garden, not doubting the poor mutt's love for her, but so wounded by his forgetfulness that she could,have beaned him with a brick. Then the postman came, with a parcel of violets. " From Rodney Spelvin, of course," she said to herself. " How like him to choose this way of showing he has not forgotten." About this time Jane and Spelvin met. " I got the violets,'? she said. Spelvin was very fogged, but he came back strongly. " That's good. You got the violets ? " - " So you didn't Torget me, Rodney ? " " Forget you ! " exclaimed Spelvin, directing into her eyes a look of such squashy sentimentality that Jane reeled where she stood. ' Years pass, Jane tires of golf and decides she must live with artistic people. She quarrels with William, who declares that the pie-faced Spelvin must be thrown out on his left ear, or else he must push off himself. " He's not pie-faced;" said Jane warmly. But William insists he is and even volunteers to show her a:custarrt pie that might lie his brother. So Jane and William part.
A fortnight later Jane and her little son, Braid Vardon Bates, are still alone in the flat. " What have you got there, dear ? " she asks. " With," said little Braid, a child of few words. " Let mother play too,;' -.she said gently. " What are you playing ? Trains ? Golf." JaMe- uttered a sharp exclamation: The child was holding the mashie all wrong. She realized now how self-centred she had been. Long ere this, she should have been teaching him at her knee the correct Vardon grip, shielding him frOm bad habits, seeing to it that he did not get his hands in front of the ball, putting him on the right _path as regards the slow back-swing. . She shuddered to the depths of her soul.
At this moment Spelvin appears and is sent to the right- about, casting wistful eyes on an uncut seed-cake. Instead, she gives a slice to Braid Vardon. Having ruined his life it was the least she could do. Indeed, in a. spasm of belated maternal love she also slipped him a jam sandwich. " Braid ! " she cried suddenly. —" What ? " " Come here "—" Why ?,', " Let mother show you how to hold that mashie." " What's a mashie ? " At these words, a new gash opened in Jane's heart. Four years old and didn't know what a mashie was And at only a slightly more advanced age, Bobby Jones had been playing in the American Open Championship.
" Now look, dear. Watch how mother does it. :She puts her fingers " A voice spoke, a voice .that had been absent all too long from Jane's life. " pardon me, old girl, but you've got the right hand over much too fir. You'll hook for a certainty." There is a reconciliation, of course, and she learns that the violets have come from WilliaM all this time.
But in what masterly fashion, with what skilful asides, is this story told—of which this is only a stammered synopsis !
Mr. Wodehouse is one of the most genuine humorists of the age and with each new book his powers develop. This is his best so far. It is full of laughs and lightnings, sheer farce, ingenious fancy. The humour is sometimes slapped on with a broad brush, but by the hand of ajnaster.
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