And so there was left on the official hands, at the close of the War, a

quantity of jute which nobody wanted, at a price which nobody would

pay. And then somebody asked a question in the House of Commons, and

the responsible Secretary went hot all over, and framed the reply which

an Under-secretary subsequently made in such terms as would lead the

country to believe that the jute purchased at a figure beyond the

market value was a valuable asset, and would one day be sold at a

profit.

Mr. Augustus Tibbetts knew nothing about jute. But he did read, almost

every morning in the daily newspapers, how one person or another had

made enormous purchases of linen, or of cloth, or of motor chassis,

paying fabulous sums on the nail and walking off almost immediately

with colossal profits; and every time Bones read such an account he

wriggled in his chair and made unhappy noises.

Then one afternoon there came to his office a suave gentleman in

frock-coat, carrying with him a card which was inscribed "Ministry of

Supplies." And the end of that conversation was that Bones, all a

twitter of excitement, drove to a gloomy office in Whitehall, where he

interviewed a most sacred public official, to whom members of the

public were not admitted, perhaps, more than four times a year.

Hamilton had watched the proceedings with interest and suspicion. When

Bones was mysterious he was very mysterious; and he returned that night

in such a condition of mystery that none but a thought-reading

detective could have unravelled him.

"You seem infernally pleased with yourself, Bones," said Hamilton.

"What lamentable error have you fallen into?"

"Dear old Ham," said Bones, with the helpless little laugh which

characterised the very condition of mind which Hamilton had described,

"dear old pryer, wait till to-morrow. Dear old thing, I wouldn't spoil

it. Read your jolly old newspaper, dear old inquirer."

"Have you been to the police court?" asked Hamilton.

"Police court? Police court?" said Bones testily. "Good Heavens, lad!

Why this jolly old vulgarity? No, dear boy, live and learn, dear old

thing!"

Hamilton undoubtedly lived until the next morning, and learnt. He saw

the headlines the second he opened his newspaper.

"One minute, one minute, dear old Ham," said. Bones warningly. And

then, turning to the industrious journalist, he went on where Hamilton

had evidently interrupted him. "You can say that I've spent a great

deal of my life in fearfully dangerous conditions," he said. "You

needn't say where, dear old reporter, just say 'fearfully dangerous

conditions.'"




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