(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."