BREAKFAST STALL, COVENT GARDEN MARKET.
THE POTATO MAN GETS ANGRY.
"Tates hot!—all 'ot, 'ot! Taters all 'ot." His can with its steam pipe, from which issues forth a fragrant odor on the morning air, is already surrounded by young street boys, who will run an errand for a penny, hold your horse, catch a flying hat, steal a cabbage or a pocket full of potatoes from the stalls with equal impartiality and energy. These markets are the worst places in London for young lads, as there is always some excuse for their presence in the vicinity, under pretence of earning a penny or picking up the refuse and odds and ends of a vegetable market. Observe this young rascal now, who is surveying the Baked Potato man with an assumption of scorn combined with a profound look of wisdom in his features. His hands are in his pockets, his trousers are ragged to the knees, and his linen is nowhere visible—a miserable London street boy—and yet you would imagine, to look at him as he steps up to negotiate for a potato, that he was the agent of the Rothschilds about to make arrangements for a loan. His age does not exceed fifteen years, and he has been sleeping in the purlieus of the market all night, as his ragged and soiled coat testify, and his hair is full of slimy straws which he has accumulated while reclining his head on a market gardener's basket. The Baked Potato man eyes him with distrust and timidity, for he is well aware that there is no profit to be made from him, and that he is about to "chaff" him. The young rascals who stand around are all wide awake, and await the contest with solicitude in their countenances.
"Taters all 'ot—taters all 'ot—'ot—'ot," cries the Potato Man.
"Well, guv'nor, I see you're a keepin the steam up as usual. Vot's the werry lowest figger you names for the werry best taters, takin a lot—takin a quantity? I feels like patronizin you, I does."
"Penny a-piece, all 'ot—'ot."
"A penny a-piece for baked taters, and the Funds agoin down like winkin! Vy, I 'ad a pine apple myself out of a Garden this mornin for two-pence. Trade's unkimmon bad, guv'nor."
"Penny apiece—all 'ot—all 'ot—I say, keep your dirty fingers away from the can. You doesn't buy anythink, I know."