"No politics to-day! Much too hot!
Come in and see the reaping match."
He took a long drink and I sat down in the car.
"You know," I said to Mr. Ansell, who was standing on the front seat,
"there'll be trouble about this!"
Mr. Ansell was looking a little grave himself.
"Is Mr. Bundercombe really the manufacturer of that machine?" he asked.
"Of course he is!" Eve replied. "It's the one hobby of his life--or,
rather, it used to be," she corrected herself hastily. "Even now, when he
begins talking about his reaping machine he forgets everything else."
Mr. Ansell hurried away and made a few inquiries. Meanwhile we watched the
progress of the match. Every time Mr. Bundercombe had to turn he rocked in
his seat and retained his balance only with difficulty. At every
successful effort he was loudly cheered by a little group of following
enthusiasts. Mr. Ansell returned, looking a little more cheerful.
"Everything is being given by the Bundercombe Reaping Company," he
announced, "and Mr. Bundercombe's city agent is on the spot prepared to
book orders for the machine. It seems that Mr. Bundercombe has backed
himself at ten to one in ten-pound notes to beat Mr. Jonas by half an
hour, each taking half the field.
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