"By Jove, Uncle Harry," he said in an awestruck tone, "that's poetry."
"Is it?" I said. "I just threw it off."
"Oh, yes, it's poetry all right. It's got rhymes, you know."
"Rupert," I said, "let us come back to plain prose and consider your
desperate financial situation. You cannot get your three pounds ten."
"No, not yet."
"And Aunt Mary's pound?"
"They said that, being holiday time, that wouldn't have got to headquarters
yet."
"Gracious goodness," I said, "I never knew a savings bank had so many
pitfalls. The whole thing is too complicated for my mind."
"It isn't really complicated," said Rupert. "It's quite plain; but perhaps
if you put it into poetry you'll understand it better."
"Rupert," I said, "let us have no sarcasms. The thing is too serious for
that. You possess your grandmother's pound in a postal-order and assorted
coins to the amount of seven and sixpence, total one pound seven and six,
to pay for a bicycle costing five pounds seventeen and sixpence. In short,
you are a bankrupt."
"But I shall get the money."
"That is what they all say."
Eventually the matter was arranged and the bicycle man was satisfied.
Rupert's correspondence with the Post Office still continues. But his faith
in that institution has received a severe shock.