(2 of 2)
The publishers profess to be perplexed about whether this is 85-year-old Author Wodehouse's 70th or 80th or maybe even 90th book. No use trying to count, they say, because in Wodehouse's puzzling world, as in Einstein's, one and one don't always add up to two. Quite true. Old Wodehouse-masters know it is equally fruitless to try to unravel the plot in one of his potty idyls. In this book, he sets out to tell the tale of a cuckoo American millionaire's efforts to steal an 18th century paperweight from an English manor house. What he also does in his incomparable way is to prove that, for a fellow who started effervescing back in the Edwardian era, he has a lot of bubble left in him yet. In fact, his fans will find that this book leaves P.G. about where he was before: one of the funniest writers of this and bygone times.