"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 reassured 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."