None of us knew Enderby, but we I did not like to say so.  The quiet man’s anxiety was painful.  We felt he could not go on with his story unless someone knew Enderby.

“He has a little place round at the back of the Common—­quite a nice little place.”  Freath—­that was the quiet man’s name—­looked at us reproachfully.

“I think I know Enderby,” said Dalton.  “Isn’t he a heavily-built man about fifty, with a grey moustache?”

“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?”

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.”