The fact is, the umbrella is not my umbrella at all. It is the
umbrella of some person who I hope will read these lines. He has got my
silk umbrella. I have got the cotton one he left in exchange. I imagine him
flaunting along the Strand under my umbrella, and throwing a scornful
glance at the fellow who was carrying his abomination and getting wet into
the bargain. I daresay the rascal chuckled as he eyed the said abomination.
"Ah," he said gaily to himself, "I did you in that time, old boy. I know
that thing. It won't open for nuts. And it folds up like a sack. Now, this
umbrella...."
But I leave him to his unrighteous communings. He is one of those people
who have what I may call an umbrella conscience. You know the sort of
person I mean. He would never put his hand in another's pocket, or forge a
cheque or rob a till--not even if he had the chance. But he will swop
umbrellas, or forget to return a book, or take a rise out of the railway
company. In fact he is a thoroughly honest man who allows his honesty the
benefit of the doubt.
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