"I tell you," I whispered, "this chap knows everything." Then aloud,
"I say, Sir, if you wouldn't mind putting me on to something for the
Cotsall Selling Plate. Simply," I added hastily, "in the national
interest, of course. Keeping up the breed of horses."

The inspector changed the subject again. "You were allocated one
hundredweight of sugar, I believe, Ma'am," he said.

"Oh, yes," replied my wife. "But you see some of our jam is still
sticking to the trees. Perhaps this gentleman would like to see the
orchard, Wenceslaus," she added, turning to me.

(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."