SUGAR CONTROL.
"Good evening, Sir," said Lord RHONDDA'S minion (the man who does his dirty work), moistening his lips with a bit of pencil. "You were allocated one hundredweight of sugar for jam-making in respect of your soft fruit, I believe?"
"How did you guess?" I said. "I say, do tell me when the War's going to end. Just between ourselves, you know."
"This being the case," he went on (evidently trying to change the subject—no War Office secrets to be got out of him, you notice), "I must request you to show me your fruit-trees and also your jam cupboard."
"The latter," I said—for he had called just after tea—"is rather full at present, but doing nicely, thanks. As you observe, however, we think it wiser not to try to close the bottom button of the door."
"Perhaps your wife—" suggested the man tentatively.
"My wife does her best, of course. She often says, 'Dearest, a third pot of tea if you like, but I'm sure a third cup of jam wouldn't be good for you.' By the way, don't you want to see the tea-orchard too? The Cox's Orange Pekoes have done frightfully well this year—the new blend, you know; or should I say hybrid?"
At this moment my wife appeared, looking particularly charming in a mousseline de soie aux fines herbes—anglicé, a sprigged muslin. I seized her hand and led her aside.
"Lord RHONDDA'S myrmidon is upon us!" I hissed. "'Tis for your husband's life, child. Hold the minion of the law in check—attract him; fascinate him; play him that little thing on the piano—you know, 'Tum-ti-tum'—while I slope off to the secret chamber, where my ancestor lay hid before—I mean after—the Battle of Worcester. By the way, I hope it's been dusted lately? Hush! if he sees us hold secret parlance I'm lost."
"Alas!" said my wife, "the secret chamber is where we keep the jam."
She smiled subtly at me and then winningly at the inspector as she turned towards him.
"Step this way, please," she continued.
I caught the idea at once and, blessing the quick wit of woman, followed in the victim's wake, ready to close the secret panel behind him and leave him to a lingering death.
My wife slid open the trap, turning with a triumphant smile as she did so, and I saw at once that the death of anyone shut up inside would be a lot more lingering than I had imagined, for the place seemed full of jam. I was surprised.
"Can I be going to eat all that?" I thought; and life seemed suddenly a very beautiful thing.
The inspector ran a hungry eye over it all, and if he had tried to clamber inside for a closer inspection I should not have given him the quick push I had planned. I should have held him back by his coat. My own way of testing the amount of jam which my wife had made was not for the likes of him.
"About a hundred-and-fifty pounds," he said at last.
"Just a little over," nodded my wife.
"I tell you," I whispered, "this chap knows everything." Then aloud, "I say, Sir, if you wouldn't mind putting me on to something for the Cotsall Selling Plate. Simply," I added hastily, "in the national interest, of course. Keeping up the breed of horses."
The inspector changed the subject again. "You were allocated one hundredweight of sugar, I believe, Ma'am," he said.
"Oh, yes," replied my wife. "But you see some of our jam is still sticking to the trees. Perhaps this gentleman would like to see the orchard, Wenceslaus," she added, turning to me.
(Of course, you know, my Christian name isn't really Wenceslaus, but we authors enjoy so little privacy nowadays that I must really be allowed to leave it at that.)
So I took the inspector off to see the orchard, pausing on the way at the strawberry bed.
"This," I explained, "was to have made up quite fifty pounds of our allocation, but I'm afraid the crop failed this year. So that must account for any little discrepancy in the weight of fruit." I was very firm about this.
"Strawberries have done well enough elsewhere," said Nemesis suspiciously. "I'm surprised that yours should have failed."
"When I say 'failed,'" I explained, "I mean 'failed to get as far as the preserving pan.' I always retain an option on eating the crop fresh."
The inspector frowned and was going to make a note of this, so I tried to distract his attention.
"Do you know," I said, "a short time ago people persisted in mistaking me for a brother of the Duke of Cotsall?"
"Why?" he asked—rather rudely.
"Because of the strawberry mark on my upper lip. Ah, I think this is the orchard. There was a wealth of bloom here when I put in my application."
"Applications were not made till the fruit was on the trees," said Lord RHONDDA'S minion, sharply. "Ah, there's a nice lot of plums."
This seemed more satisfactory.
"Yes, isn't there?" I said enthusiastically. "Now I'm sure this makes up the amount all right."
"Plums are stone fruit," he observed stonily, "and you were allocated one hundredweight of sugar for your soft fruit, I believe?"
One really gets very tired of people who go on harping on the same thing over and over again.
"What about raspberries?" I inquired.
"Soft fruit, of course," said the inspector.
"But they contain stones," I urged. "Nasty little things wot gits into the 'ollers of your teeth somethink cruel, as cook says. Really, the Government ought to give us more careful instructions. And what about the apples? Are pips stones?"
"Apples are not used for jam-making," he retorted.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Tell that to the—to the Army in general! Plum-and-apple jam, my dear Sir! And that reminds me: a jam composed of half stone and half soft fruit—how do we stand in respect to that?"
"Well, Sir," said the inspector, closing his notebook grudgingly, "I don't think we need go into that. I think you've got just about the requisite amount of soft fruit for the one hundredweight of sugar which, I believe, you were allocated."
"There's still the rose garden," I said, "if you're not satisfied."
"Been turning that into an orchard, have you?" he asked. "Very patriotic, I'm sure."
"Well, I don't know," I said. "My wife wants to make pot-pourri as usual, but what I say is, in these days—and with all that sugar—it would surely be more patriotic (as you say) to make fleurs de Nice."
"It would be more patriotic perhaps," observed Lord RHONDDA'S minion sententiously, "not to make jam at all."
"Ah!" I said. "Have a glass of beer before you go."
W.B.
