The movements of my prospective father-in-law were, for the next few days,
wrapped in a certain mystery. He arrived home one evening, however, in a
state of extreme indignation. As usual when anything had happened to upset
him he came to look for me in the library.
"My boy," he said, "of all the God-forsaken, out-of-the-world, benighted
holes, this Bildborough of yours absolutely takes the cake! For sheer
ignorance --for sheer, thick-headed, bumptious, arrogant ignorance--give
me your farmers!"
"What's wrong?" I asked him.
"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 cocktail 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.
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