"I shot a marrow into the--I mean I cut a marrow two feet seven inches
long yesterday," said the man in the corner seat.
"What did it weigh?" we asked anxiously. After two months of them
potatoes had somewhat palled. We were growing rather tired of marrows,
but we waited eagerly for his answer,
"Twenty-six pounds nine and three-quarter ounces."
Disappointment again. Our hopes were dashed to the ground. Some obscure
individual, according to the local press, had produced from his humble
cottage garden a marrow weighing thirty-four pounds, and the thing
rankled.
"Mine was a scraggy specimen, more like an Indian club than a marrow."
"Crossed in love, perhaps," said Dalton.
"What your marrow wanted was nourishment," said the Authority. "A piece
of worsted round its neck, with one end dipped in a jar of water."
"Excuse me," said Jones, "the very latest is to insert a tube in the
stalk, and the flavour is greatly improved if you add a little sugar to
the water. Almost like a melon."
"Do you take a card out for each marrow, or one for each plant?" asked
Dalton.
The quiet man opposite put his paper down. He was a new-comer in the
district. We liked him, although he had no sense of humour and did not
appreciate Dalton's jokes. He appeared to be interested only in the
startling and the odd.
"That reminds me," he said, "of a most extraordinary experience I had a
few days ago. Of course you all know Enderby?"
None of us knew Enderby, but we I did not like to say so. The quiet
man's anxiety was painful. We felt he could not go on with his story
unless someone knew Enderby.
"He has a little place round at the back of the Common--quite a nice
little place." Freath--that was the quiet man's name--looked at us
reproachfully.
"I think I know Enderby," said Dalton. "Isn't he a heavily-built man
about fifty, with a grey moustache?"
"Yes, yes," said Freath eagerly. "And a curious wart on his left cheek.
Well, I dined with him the other night. His boy was there, home for the
holidays. Very clever boy; his special study is the biology of plants.
They gave me a very good dinner; I didn't notice very much what I was
eating, but I did when the maid helped me to marrow. It was a deep
crimson colour. I tasted it somewhat nervously, for I felt they were all
watching me. It had the taste of the most exquisite fruit, and the
flavour--I am afraid you won't believe me--was that of the finest port
that I ever drank. 'How did you manage this, Arthur?' said Enderby.
'Grape-juice,' said Arthur. 'Those foreign black grapes are very cheap
just now, so I mixed some with the water that I was feeding the marrows
on.' I can't explain it to you; all I know is that I had a second
helping. I am afraid you don't believe it," said Freath uneasily.
We assured him that we did, but we did not say it with conviction.
"Enderby called round to see me a few days afterwards," continued
Freath, "and I walked back with him. As we went along he told me that a
relative was staying with them--an uncle. The first night, again they
had marrow for dinner. This time its flavour was not port but
whisky--Scotch whisky. The old gentleman was delighted with Arthur and
his experiments. Although an abstainer he had three helpings. This was
very pleasing to Enderby, as the uncle was a man of considerable wealth.
But he was not at all satisfied with his son's explanations, and he
thought he recognised the whisky. Although an abstainer while the War is
on, Enderby keeps a very good cellar, and when he came to look into
things he found that Arthur had been pumping his finest '60 port and old
matured Scotch whisky into the vegetable marrows. Now what do you think
of that?"
We thought it very strange and we said so.
"But the strangest part has yet to come. Of course they had to keep it
quiet--bottle it up, so to speak, from the old gentleman, and let the
marrows down gradually. But when the marrows were once more on a
temperance _régime_ the most extraordinary thing happened." The train
was running into Finsbury Park. Freath rose and collected his things.
We stared at him, fascinated.
"Enderby took me into the garden to see it. He said it had been going on
for the last week. From all directions, rioting across the flower-beds,
the lawn, down the paths, the marrows were growing towards the
wine-cellar at the rate of twelve feet a day."
Freath hastily left the carriage and jumped into the Broad Street train.
While we were discussing the story the voice of authority spoke: "The
whole thing's a tissue of falsehood. There's no such man as Enderby."
"But Dalton knows him," we said.
"I don't know Enderby," said Dalton. "But I wanted to hear the story."
* * * * *