The Manor Wodehouse Collection CLICK ON TITLE TO BUY FROM AMAZON.COM Go to www.ManorWodehouse.com for more options and to download e-books The Little Warrior The Swoop William Tell Told Again Mike: A Public School Story Jill the Reckless The Politeness of Princes & Other School Stories The Man Upstairs & Other Stories The Coming of Bill A Man of Means: A Series of Six Stories The Gem Collector The Adventures of Sally The Clicking of Cuthbert A Damsel in Distress Jeeves in the Springtime & Other Stories The Pothunters My Man Jeeves The Girl on the Boat Mike & Psmith The White Feather The Man With Two Left Feet & Other Stories Piccadilly Jim Psmith in the City Right Ho, Jeeves Uneasy Money A Prefect’s Uncle Psmith Journalist The Prince and Betty Something New The Gold Bat & Other Stories Head of Kay’s The Intrusion of Jimmy The Little Nugget Love Among the Chickens Tales of St. Austin’s Indiscretions of Archie Jeeves, Emsworth and Others The Clicking of Cuthbert P. G. Wodehouse The Manor Wodehouse Collection Tark Classic Fiction an imprint of MANOR Rockville, Maryland 2008 Th e Clicking of Cuthbert by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, in its current format, copyright © Arc Manor 2008. Th is book, in whole or in part, may not be copied or reproduced in its current format by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without the permission of the publisher. Th e original text has been reformatted for clarity and to fi t this edition. Arc Manor, Arc Manor Classic Reprints, Manor Classics, TARK Classic Fiction, Th e and the Arc Manor logo are trademarks or registered trademarks of Arc Manor Publishers, Rockville, Maryland. All other trademarks are properties of their respective owners. Th is book is presented as is, without any warranties (implied or otherwise) as to the accuracy of the production, text or translation. Th e publisher does not take responsibility for any typesetting, format- ting, translation or other errors which may have occurred during the production of this book. ISBN: 978-1-60450-055-4 Published by TARK Classic Fiction An Imprint of Arc Manor P. O. Box 10339 Rockville, MD 20849-0339 www.ArcManor.com Printed in the United States of America/United Kingdom To the immortal memory of John Henrie and Pat Rogie who at Edinburgh in the year 1593 A.D. were imprisoned for “Playing Of Th e Gowff on the Links of Leith Every Sabbath the Time of Th e Sermonses”, also of Robert Robertson who got it in the neck in 1604 A.D. for the same reason. Please Visit www.ManorWodehouse.com for a complete list of titles available in our Manor Wodehouse Collection Contents Fore! — The Clicking of Cuthbert — A Woman is Only a Woman — A Mixed Threesome — Sundered Hearts — The Salvation of George Mackintosh — Ordeal By Golf — The Long Hole — The Heel of Achilles — The Rough Stuff — The Coming of Gowf Fore! This book marks an epoch in my literary career. It is written in blood. It is the outpouring of a soul as deeply seared by Fate’s un- kindness as the pretty on the dog-leg hole of the second nine was ever seared by my iron. It is the work of a very nearly desperate man, an eighteen-handicap man who has got to look extremely slippy if he doesn’t want to fi nd himself in the twenties again. As a writer of light fi ction, I have always till now been handi- capped by the fact that my disposition was cheerful, my heart intact, and my life unsoured. Handicapped, I say, because the public likes to feel that a writer of farcical stories is piquantly miserable in his private life, and that, if he turns out anything amusing, he does it simply in order to obtain relief from the almost insupportable weight of an existence which he has long since realized to be a wash-out. Well, today I am just like that. Two years ago, I admit, I was a shallow farceur. My work lacked depth. I wrote fl ippantly simply because I was having a thoroughly good time. Th en I took up golf, and now I can smile through the tears and laugh, like Figaro, that I may not weep, and generally hold my head up and feel that I am entitled to respect. If you fi nd anything in this volume that amuses you, kindly bear in mind that it was probably written on my return home after losing three balls in the gorse or breaking the head off a favourite driver: and, with a murmured “Brave fellow! Brave fellow!” recall the story of the clown jesting while his child lay dying at home. Th at is all. Th ank you for your sympathy. It means more to me than I can say. Do you think that if I tried the square stance for a bit.... But, after all, this cannot interest you. Leave me to my misery. Postscript. – In the second chapter I allude to Stout Cortez star- ing at the Pacifi c. Shortly after the appearance of this narrative in 7 P. G. WODEHOUSE serial form in America, I received an anonymous letter containing the words, “You big stiff , it wasn’t Cortez, it was Balboa.” Th is, I be- lieve, is historically accurate. On the other hand, if Cortez was good enough for Keats, he is good enough for me. Besides, even if it was Balboa, the Pacifi c was open for being stared at about that time, and I see no reason why Cortez should not have had a look at it as well. P. G. Wodehouse. 8 — The Clicking of Cuthbert The young man came into the smoking-room of the clubhouse, and fl ung his bag with a clatter on the fl oor. He sank moodily into an arm-chair and pressed the bell. “Waiter!” “Sir?” Th e young man pointed at the bag with every evidence of distaste. “You may have these clubs,” he said. “Take them away. If you don’t want them yourself, give them to one of the caddies.” Across the room the Oldest Member gazed at him with a grave sadness through the smoke of his pipe. His eye was deep and dreamy – the eye of a man who, as the poet says, has seen Golf steadily and seen it whole. “You are giving up golf?” he said. He was not altogether unprepared for such an attitude on the young man’s part: for from his eyrie on the terrace above the ninth green he had observed him start out on the afternoon’s round and had seen him lose a couple of balls in the lake at the second hole after taking seven strokes at the fi rst. “Yes!” cried the young man fi ercely. “For ever, dammit! Footling game! Blanked infernal fat-headed silly ass of a game! Nothing but a waste of time.” Th e Sage winced. “Don’t say that, my boy.” “But I do say it. What earthly good is golf? Life is stern and life is earnest. We live in a practical age. All round us we see foreign competition making itself unpleasant. And we spend our time play- ing golf! What do we get out of it? Is golf any use? Th at’s what I’m 9 P. G. WODEHOUSE asking you. Can you name me a single case where devotion to this pestilential pastime has done a man any practical good?” Th e Sage smiled gently. “I could name a thousand.” “One will do.” “I will select,” said the Sage, “from the innumerable memories that rush to my mind, the story of Cuthbert Banks.” “Never heard of him.” “Be of good cheer,” said the Oldest Member. “You are going to hear of him now.” ' It was in the picturesque little settlement of Wood Hills (said the Oldest Member) that the incidents occurred which I am about to relate. Even if you have never been in Wood Hills, that suburban paradise is probably familiar to you by name. Situated at a conve- nient distance from the city, it combines in a notable manner the advantages of town life with the pleasant surroundings and health- ful air of the country. Its inhabitants live in commodious houses, standing in their own grounds, and enjoy so many luxuries – such as gravel soil, main drainage, electric light, telephone, baths (h. and c.), and company’s own water, that you might be pardoned for imagin- ing life to be so ideal for them that no possible improvement could be added to their lot. Mrs. Willoughby Smethurst was under no such delusion. What Wood Hills needed to make it perfect, she realized, was Culture. Material comforts are all very well, but, if the summum bonum is to be achieved, the Soul also demands a look in, and it was Mrs. Smethurst’s unfaltering resolve that never while she had her strength should the Soul be handed the loser’s end. It was her intention to make Wood Hills a centre of all that was most cultivated and refi ned, and, golly! how she had succeeded. Under her presidency the Wood Hills Literary and Debating Society had tripled its membership. But there is always a fl y in the ointment, a caterpillar in the salad. Th e local golf club, an institution to which Mrs. Smethurst strongly objected, had also tripled its membership; and the division of the community into two rival camps, the Golfers and the Cul- tured, had become more marked than ever.