“I knew right there that I must decide between that coffin and a barrel of apples.”
There came upon him a fierce craving to brace his nerves with some of the whiskey in his bag. He ran through the ship praying as fervently as a drowning man for some saving straw. He saw the deaf man with the Baldwin apple, and he ran to the fruit like a hunted animal—eager to bite into it and to ease his heated tongue against its sour juice.
Since I first heard the story I have investigated many cases, and have never found a heavy drinker who was at the same time a large consumer of raw apples. And I have run upon several cases where sour apples eaten freely have safely tided men past the desire to drink. Surely a prohibition country must be one flowing with milk and apples!
We founded the Apple Consumers’ League largely on that theory. Something over twenty-five years ago I was lunching at a New York restaurant. There was a bumper apple crop that year, and a poor sale for it. Looking over the bill of fare, I found oranges, prunes and bananas, and an idea struck me.
“Bring me a baked apple.”
“We ain’t got none.”
“What, no baked apples? I thought this was an American place.”
“Sorry, boss, but we ain’t got none.”
By this time everyone within fifty feet was listening. Soon came an anxious-looking man, rubbing his hands and trying to smile.
“Nothing the matter with the food, I hope.”