The mushroom-sheds are situated in a field some distance from my
residence, and I found it rather a fatiguing walk. After tedious
watching in a cramped position through a gap in the hedge I saw Mr.
Diggles emerge from a shed and move away from my direction. I lost
no time in creeping forward under cover of my umbrella towards an
employee, who was engaged in tossing manure. I drew out my note-book
and interrogated him briefly and briskly.
"Do you rear from seeds or from cuttings?" I asked him. He scratched
his head and appeared in doubt. "Are your plants self-supporting," I
went on, "or do you train them on twigs? What would be the diameter
of your finest specimen?" He continued in doubt. I adopted a
conversational manner. "I suppose you'll be potting off soon? You
must get very fond of your mushrooms. I think one always gets fond of
anything which demands one's whole care and attention. I wonder if I
might have a peep at your _protégés_?"
I edged towards the door of one of the sheds, but he made no attempt
to accompany me. Instead he put his hands to his mouth and shouted,
"Hi, maister!"
Mr. Diggles promptly responded to the summons. There was no eluding
him. I put my note-book out of sight and inquired if he could oblige
me with a pound of fresh-culled mushrooms. He could, and he did. I
paid him four-and-sixpence for them, the control price presumably,
but he gave me no invitation to view the growing crops. I retraced
my steps without having collected even an opening paragraph for "A
Fortune in Fungus."
The next day found me again near the sheds. Mr. Diggles was nowhere
in sight. I approached unobtrusively through the hedge and accosted a
small boy.
"Hulloa, my little man," I said, "what is your department in this
hive of industry? You weed the mushrooms, perhaps, or prune them?" He
seemed shy and offered no answer. "Perhaps you hoe between the plants
or syringe them with insecticide?"
Still I could not win his confidence, so I tried pressing sixpence
into his palm. "Between ourselves, what are the weekly takings?" I
said. He pocketed the coin and put his finger on his lips.
"_Belge,"_ he said. Then he bolted into a shed and returned
accompanied by Mr. Diggles. There was nothing for it but to purchase
another pound of mushrooms. I was no nearer "A Fortune in Fungus" than
before.
Two days later, having received apparently reliable information that
Mr. Diggles was confined to his bed with influenza, I ventured again
to visit the sheds. I was advancing boldly across the field when to
my consternation he suddenly appeared from behind a hayrick. I was
so startled that I turned to fly, and in my precipitancy tripped on a
tussock and fell. Mr. Diggles came to my assistance, and, when he had
helped me to my feet and brushed me down with a birch broom he was
carrying, I could do nothing less than buy another pound of his
mushrooms.
I felt it was time to consult Biddick. He was sitting at his desk
staring at a blank sheet of paper. His fingers were harrowing his hair
and he looked distraught.
"Excuse the interruption," I said, "but this 'Fortune in Fungus' is
ruining me;" and I related my experience.
At the finish Biddick gripped my hand and spoke with some emotion.
"Dear old chap," he said, "it's my line, after all. It's funny. If
only I can do it justice;" and he shook his fountain-pen.
This morning I received a guinea and a newspaper cutting entitled "A
Cadger for Copy," which may appeal to some people's sense of humour.
It makes none to mine. In the flap of the envelope Biddick writes:
"Halves, with best thanks."
Upon consideration I shall forward him a simple formal receipt.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "IT LOOKS QUITE LIKE PRE-WAR BACON."
"ON THE CONTRARY, MADAM, PERMIT ME TO ASSURE YOU IT IS OUR FINEST
'POST-BELLUM STREAKY.'"]
* * * * *