A LOCAL FOOD-CONTROLLER.
"No partner for you this evening, Sir," said the Inspector. "Mr. Tibbits has just telephoned through that he has rheumatism badly again."
I know Tibbits' rheumatism. I also know he plays off his heat in the club billiard handicap to-night. I can imagine him writhing round the table. Still I remember the first rule of the force—under no circumstances give another policeman away.
"You'll have to take Dartmouth Street by yourself, Sir," continues the Inspector.
"What's it like?"
"Bit of a street market. All right—just tact and keep them moving."
I reach Dartmouth Street. It is a thronged smelly thoroughfare. I pass along modestly, hoping that every one will ignore me.
But a gentleman who is selling fish detects me and calls "'Ere, Boss, move this ole geezer on."
"What's the trouble?" I inquire.
The old geezer turns rapidly on me. "'Ere 'e's gone and sold me two 'errings for tuppence 'alfpenny which was that salt my 'usband went near mad, what with the pubs bein' shut all afternoon, an' now 'e's popped the fender jus' to get rid of 'is thirst."
"I told you to soak 'em in three waters," says the fishmonger.
"'Ow much beer is my 'usband to soak 'imself in—tell me that?"
It is time for tact. I whisper in the lady's ear, "Come along—don't argue with a man like that. He's beneath you."
She comes away. I am triumphant. But she turns round and cries, "This gentleman as is a gentleman says I ain't to lower meself by talkin' to a 'ound like you."
I move on. I doubt if the fishmonger will be pleased by the lady's representation of my few words, and I make a mental note to keep away from his stall. All at once another lady, who for some obscure reason is carrying a bucket, grips me by the arm.
"I'm goin' to 'ave the law on my side, I am," she declares emphatically, "an' then I'll smash 'is bloomin' fice in."
I am swayed towards a fruit-stall.
"Look at them," says the irate lady, holding out three potatoes. "Rotten—at thrippence a pound. My 'usband 'e'd 'ave set abaht me if I'd give 'im them for 'is dinner."
The fruiterer takes a lofty moral standard. "I sold yer them fer seed pertaters, I did. If yer 'usband eats them 'e's worse than a Un."
"Seed pertaters, was they? Where was I to grow 'em? In a mug on the mantelpiece?"
"'Ow was I ter know yer 'adn't a 'lotment?"
"You'll need no 'lotment. It's a cemet'ry you'll want when my 'usband knows you've called 'im a Un."
"Now, now," I interpose tactfully. "Perhaps you can exchange them, then you'll have the lady for a regular customer."
"I don't want the blighter fer a reglar customer," says the fruiterer.
Three potatoes whirl past me at the fruiterer. The lady with the bucket departs rapidly.
"Lemme get at 'er," cries the irate fruiterer.
"You wouldn't hit a woman," I protest.
"Wouldn't I?" says the infuriated fruiterer.
I interpose—verbally. "You'll get everything stolen," I say, "from your stall if you leave it."
"I'll leave you in charge."
"I'm needed down my beat," I reply, and stalk on instantly, leaving a sadly disillusioned man behind me.
I reach a queue outside a grocer's shop.
"There now," says a stout lady, "give 'er in charge."
The queue all speak at once.
"She's a 'oarder, she is. Got 'arf-a-pound o' sugar already in 'er basket and only 'erself and 'er 'usband at 'ome, while I got five kids."
A lady down the queue caps this with seven kids, and in the distance a lady in a fur cap claims ten, and is at once engaged by her neighbours in a bitter controversy as to whether three in France should count in sugar buying.
All the time the hoarder stands with nose in the air, the picture of lofty indifference.
Tact—tact—I remember the Inspector's advice.
"Excuse me, Madam," I say, "but in these times we all have to make sacrifices. You already have sugar. Some of your friends have none. Under the circumstances—"
Slowly the lady turns a withering eye on me. "I'll move nowhere no'ow for nobody."
A lady in the background suggests that the female should be boiled in a sugar-sack. A more humane person expresses the hope that she will be bombed that night.
"But, Madam, consider your friends," I proceed.
"Don't you call that lot my friends! I'm 'ere fer a pound of marge, and get it I will if all the bloomin' speshuls come 'oo 're doin' reglar coppers outer jobs."
Public opinion in the queue takes a sudden turn. One lady remarks that these speshuls are that interfering. Another alleges that she has no doubt I have sacks of sugar at home.
I remember the Inspector's counsel about moving on, and move myself on.
There is one man in England who proclaims himself absolutely unfitted to fill the Food-Controller's position.
I am that modest person.
Stage Manager. "The elephant's putting up a very spirited performance to-night."
Carpenter. "Yessir. You see, the new hind-legs is a discharged soldier, and the front legs is an out-and-out pacifist."