“What’s that, mister?” replied the mystified hawker.
Dr. Mitchell pointed to the green pile of cucumbers.
“Take that barrow-load of poison, and bury it,” he called, “before you do anybody any more harm with it.”
“What barrow-load of poison’s that?” asked the hawker, approaching. A crowd began to gather.
“What barrow-load of poison is that!” repeated the doctor. “Why your barrow-load of cucumbers.”
“Oh,” said the man, scrutinizing his cucumbers carefully. To be sure, some were a little yellow at the end. “How’s that? Cumbers is right enough: fresh from market this morning.”
“Fresh or not fresh,” said the doctor, mouthing his words distinctly, “you might as well put poison into your stomach, as those things. Cucumbers are the worst thing you can eat.”
“Oh!” said the man, stuttering. “That’s ’appen for them as doesn’t like them. I niver knowed a cumber do me no harm, an’ I eat ’em like a happle.” Whereupon the hawker took a “cumber” from his barrow, bit off the end, and chewed it till the sap squirted. “What’s wrong with that?” he said, holding up the bitten cucumber.
“I’m not talking about what’s wrong with that,” said the doctor. “My business is what’s wrong with the stomach it goes into. I’m a doctor. And I know that those things cause me half my work. They cause half the internal troubles people suffer from in summertime.”
“Oh ay! That’s no loss to you, is it? Me an’ you’s partners. More cumbers I sell, more graft for you, ’cordin’ to that. What’s wrong then. Cum-bers! Fine fresh Cum-berrrs! All fresh and juisty, all cheap and tasty—!” yelled the man.