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 _regime_ 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.