"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?"