‘That’s pleasant, certainly. Then how is one to secure pure coffee?’
‘You can’t secure it, except by sending a sample to us, or some other shop of the same sort, to have it analysed; and if it’s wrong, prosecute your grocer for adulteration. After doing that a few times, he might find it didn’t pay, and give it up.’
‘And how much would that cost?’
‘Analysis of a sample of coffee, one guinea; analysis of butter, five guineas; analysis of milk, one guinea; analysis of tea, one guinea. Those are the regular charges for private analyses.’
‘Rather expensive, it seems.—And how much would it cost to prosecute?’
‘Ah, that I can’t tell you,’ said my analyst. ‘Another fiver, or more, I daresay.—But look at the satisfaction.’
I did look at it, but ultimately decided to give my grocer the benefit of the doubt, and cherish a fond hope that he was better than his fellows. The subject dropped. But a few days later, there chanced to be apple-pudding on the table. With the dish in question my analyst had always been in the habit of consuming brown sugar, and a good deal of it. Now, however, on the sugar-basin—best Demerara—being offered to him, he put on an expression as if he had been invited to partake of black draught.
‘Raw sugar! No, thank you.’
‘Hillo, what’s wrong with the sugar? Is that adulterated too?’
‘Very probably,’ he loftily replied. ‘But that’s a small matter. The genuine article is bad enough.’