Part 29 (1/2)
”Wrong? Listen!” he exclaimed, almost dramatically. ”In this district--in this whole district, mind--there is not a single farmer who has heard of Bundercombe's Reapers!”
”I farm a bit myself,” I reminded him, ”and I had never heard of them.”
Mr. Bundercombe went to the sideboard and mixed himself a c.o.c.ktail with great care.
”Bundercombe's Reapers,” he said, as soon as he had disposed of it, ”are the only reapers used by live farmers in the United States of America, Canada, Australia, or any other country worth a cent!”
”That seems to hit us pretty hard,” I remarked. ”Have you got an agent over here?”
”Sure!” Mr. Bundercombe replied. ”I don't follow the sales now, so I can't tell you what he's doing; but we've an agent here--and any country that doesn't buy Bundercombe's Reapers is off the line as regards agriculture!”
”What are you going to do about it?” I asked.
”Do!” Mr. Bundercombe toyed with his wine gla.s.s for a moment and then set it down. ”What I have done,” he announced, ”is this: I have wired to my agent. I have ordered him to s.h.i.+p half a dozen machines--if necessary on a special train--and I am going to give an exhibition on some land I have hired, over by Little Bildborough, the day after tomorrow.”
”That's the day of the election!” I exclaimed.
”You couldn't put it off, I suppose?” he suggested. ”That's the day I've fixed for my exhibition at any rate. I am giving the farmers a free lunch --slap-up affair it's going to be, I can tell you!”
”I am afraid,” I answered, with a wholly wasted sarcasm, ”that the affair has gone too far now for us to consider an alteration in the date.”
”Well, well! We must try not to clash,” Mr. Bundercombe said magnanimously. ”How long does the voting go on?”
”From eight until eight,” I told him.
Mr. Bundercombe was thoughtful.
”It's a long time to hold them!” he murmured.
”To hold whom?” I demanded.
Mr. Bundercombe started slightly.
”Nothing! Nothing! By the by, do you know a chap called Jonas--Henry Jonas, of Milton Farm?”
”I should think I do!” I groaned. ”He's the backbone of the Opposition, the best speaker they've got and the most popular man.”
Mr. Bundercombe smiled sweetly.
”Is that so!” he observed. ”Well, well! He is a very intelligent man. I trust I'll be able to persuade him that any reaper he may be using at the present moment is a jay compared to Bundercombe's--this season's model!”
”I trust you may,” I answered, a trifle tartly. ”I am glad you're likely to do a little business; but you won't mind, my reminding you--will you?-- that you really came down here to give me a leg up with my election, and not to sell your machines or to spend half your time in the enemy's camp!”
Mr. Bundercombe smiled. It was a curious smile, which seemed somehow to lose itself in his face. Then the dinner gong sounded and he winked at me slowly. Again I was conscious of some slight uneasiness. It began to dawn upon me that there was a scheme somewhere hatching; that Mr. Bundercombe's activity in the camp of the enemy might perhaps have an unsuspected significance. I talked to Eve about this after dinner; but she rea.s.sured me.
”Father talks of nothing but his reaping machines,” she declared.
”Besides, I am quite sure he would do nothing indiscreet. Only yesterday I found him studying a copy of the act referring to bribery and corruption.
Dad's pretty smart, you know!”
”I do know that,” I admitted. ”I wish I knew what he was up to, though.”