"Better wait!"
In the excitement of that final day I think both Eve and I completely
forgot all about Mr. Bundercombe. It was not until we were on our way back
from a motor tour through the outlying parts of the district that we were
forcibly reminded of his existence. Quite close to Little Bildborough, the
only absolutely hostile part of my constituency, we came upon what was
really an extraordinary sight. Our chauffeur of his own accord drew up by
the side of the road. Eve and I rose in our places.
In a large field on our left was gathered together apparently the whole
population of the district. In one corner was a huge marquee, through the
open flaps of which we could catch a glimpse of a sumptuously arranged
cold collation. On a long table just outside, covered with a white cloth,
was a vast array of bottles and beside it stood a man in a short linen
jacket, who struck me as being suspiciously like Fritz, the bartender at
one of Mr. Bundercombe's favorite haunts in London.
Toward the center of the field, seated upon a ridiculously inadequate seat
on the top of a reaping machine, was Mr. Bundercombe. He had divested
himself of coat and waistcoat, and was hatless. The perspiration was
streaming down his face as he gripped the steering wheel.
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