“I don’t know how he did it. In sections, I suppose. It’s one of those portable summer-houses. I had it sent down from the Stores last month. And there it is, standing at the bottom of his garden. I tell you the man ought not to be at large. He’s a menace. Good God! When I was in Africa during the Boer War a platoon of Australians scrounged one of my cast-iron sheds one night, but I never expected that that sort of thing happened in England in peace-time.”
Corky, a sudden bright light shone on me. I saw all. It was that word “scrounge” that did it. I remembered now having heard of Australia and its scroungers. They go about pinching things, Corky–No, I do not mean spring suits, I mean things that really matter, things of vital import like sundials and summer-houses—not beastly spring suits which nobody could tell you wanted, anyway, and you’ll get it back to-morrow as good as new.
Well, be that as it may, I saw all.
“Sir Edward,” I said, “let me explain. My uncle–”
But it was no use, Corky. They wouldn’t listen. The O.B.E. gave me one look, the Vulture gave me another, and I rather fancy Myrtle gave me a third, and then they pushed off and I was alone.
I went over to the table and helped myself to a bit of cold buttered toast, a broken man.
About ten minutes later there was a sound of cheery whistling outside and the Stepper walked in.
“Here I am, my boy,” said the Stepper. “I’ve got the eggs.” And he began shedding them out of every pocket. It looked as if he had been looting every henroost in the neighbourhood. “Where are out guests?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
He looked round.
“Hullo! Where’s the furniture?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?” I explained.
“Tut, tut!” said the Stepper.
I sniffed a bit.
“Don’t make sniffing noises at me, my boy,” said the Stepper reprovingly. “The best of men have cheques returned from time to time.”
“And I suppose the best of men sneak eggs and roses and sundials and summer-houses?” I said. And I spoke bitterly, Corky.
“Eh?” said the Stepper. “You don’t mean to say–?”
“I certainly do.”
“Tell me all.”
I told him all.
“Too bad!” he said. “I never have been able to shake off this habit of scrounging. Wherever Charles Percy Cuthbertson is, there he scrounges. But who would have supposed that people would make a fuss about a little thing like that? I’m disappointed in the old country. Why, nobody in Australia minds a little scrounging. What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine - that’s our motto out there. All this to-do about a sundial and a summer-house! Why, bless my soul, I’ve scrounged a tennis lawn in my time. Oh, well, there’s nothing to be done about it, I suppose.”
“There’s a lot to be done about it,” I said. “The O.B.E. doesn’t believe I’ve got an uncle. He thinks I pinched all those things myself.”
“Does he?” said the Stepper thoughtfully. “Does he, indeed?”
“And the least you can do is to go up to the Hall and explain.”
“Precisely what I was about to suggest myself. I’ll walk over now and put everything right. Trust me, my boy. I’ll soon fix things up.”
And he trotted out, and that, Corky, is the last I ever saw of him till to-day. It’s my belief he never went anywhere near the Hall. I am convinced that he walked straight to the station, no doubt pocketing a couple of telegraph poles and a five-barred gate or so on the way, and took the next train to London. Certainly there was nothing in the O.B.E.‘s manner when I met him next day in the village to suggest that everything had been put right and things fixed up. I don’t suppose a jute merchant has ever cut anybody so thoroughly.
And that’s why I wish to impress it upon you, Corky, old horse, that that bloke, that snaky and conscienceless old Stepper, is best avoided. No matter how glittering the prospects he may hold out, I say to you—shun him! Looking at the thing in one way, taking the short, narrow view, I am out a lunch. Possibly a very good lunch. But do I regret? No. Who knows but that a man like that would have been called to the telephone at the eleventh hour, leaving me stuck with the bill.
And even supposing he really has got money now. How did he get it? That is the question. I shall make inquiries, and if I find that someone has pinched the Albert Memorial I shall know what to think.
P. G. Wodehouse, Eggs, Beans and Crumpets
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