‘I can’t say we do much in frogs’ legs,’ he said; ‘but there are lots of things adulterated with potato. Flour and arrowroot, and butter, and cocoa, and—and—a heap of things. And the potato’s just as likely to be diseased as not. It may be, anyhow, and there you are! If you don’t know what diseased potato looks like, you’re done.’
‘A pleasant lookout,’ I replied, ‘if half-a-dozen of the commonest articles of food are habitually adulterated.’
‘Bless you, that’s nothing,’ he replied. ‘If that was all, there wouldn’t be much harm done. There are a jolly sight worse adulterations than that. In fact, pretty nearly everything’s adulterated, and some of ’em with rank poisons.’
‘Rank poisons! That’s manslaughter!’
‘O no; it isn’t,’ he calmly rejoined. ‘Of course, they don’t put in enough to kill you right off. And if you find something disagreeing with you, you can’t swear what it is. It may be the nux vomica in the beer; but it’s just as likely to be entozoa in the water, or copper in the last bottle of pickles. However, you’re all right now. With an analyst in the family, at anyrate you shan’t be poisoned without knowing it. I’ll let you know what you are eating and drinking.—This fellow’—and he patted the microscope affectionately—‘will tell you all about that.’
And it did. From that day forth I have never enjoyed a meal, and I never expect to do so again. I have always been particular to deal at respectable establishments, and to pay a fair price, in the hope of insuring a good article. I have, or had, a very tolerable appetite, and till that dreadful microscope came into the house, I used to get a good deal of enjoyment out of life. But now all is changed. My analyst began by undermining my faith in our baker. Now, if there was one of our tradesmen in whom, more than another, I had confidence, it was the baker, who supplied what seemed to me a good, solid, satisfying article, with no nonsense about it. But one day, shortly after the conversation I have recorded, my analyst remarked at breakfast-time: ‘We had a turn at bread yesterday at the laboratory—examined five samples; and found three of ’em adulterated. And do you know’—holding up a piece of our own bread and smelling it critically—‘I rather fancy this of ours is rather dicky.’
‘Nonsense!’ I cried. ‘It’s very good bread—capital bread!’
‘You may think so,’ he continued calmly; ‘but you’re not an analyst. I shall take a sample of this to the laboratory, and you shall have my report upon it.’
‘Take it, by all means. But if you find anything wrong about that bread, I’ll eat my hat!’