"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 glass 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 ship 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.