by H. H. Munro
I had always imagined that it was a habit that was especially indulged in during war-time, and said so.
“On a big scale, yes, but I am talking of a very small matter. It is easier to arrange a loan of millions than of a trifle of eighty or ninety francs.”
The would-be financier paused for a few tense moments. Then he recommenced in a more confidential strain.
“Some of you English soldiers, I have heard, are men with private means : is it not so? It is perhaps possible that among your comrades there might be someone willing to advance a small sum—you yourself, perhaps—it would be a secure and profitable investment, quickly repaid ”
“If I get a few days’ leave I will go down to Verchey-les-Torteaux and inspect the square-egg hen-farm,” I said gravely, “and question the local egg-merchants as to the position and prospects of the business.”
The Tavern Acquaintance gave an almost imperceptible shrug to his shoulders, shifted in his seat, and began moodily to roll a cigarette. His interest in me had suddenly died out, but for the sake of appearances he was bound to make a perfunctory show of winding up the conversation he had so laboriously started.
“Ah, you will go to Verchey-les-Torteaux and make inquiries about our farm. And if you find that what I have told you about the square eggs is true, Monsieur, what then?”
“I shall marry your aunt.”
