"You'll have to take Dartmouth Street by yourself, Sir," continues the Inspector.
"What's it like?"
"Bit of a street market. All right—just tact and keep them moving."
I reach Dartmouth Street. It is a thronged smelly thoroughfare. I pass along modestly, hoping that every one will ignore me.
But a gentleman who is selling fish detects me and calls "'Ere, Boss, move this ole geezer on."
"What's the trouble?" I inquire.
The old geezer turns rapidly on me. "'Ere 'e's gone and sold me two 'errings for tuppence 'alfpenny which was that salt my 'usband went near mad, what with the pubs bein' shut all afternoon, an' now 'e's popped the fender jus' to get rid of 'is thirst."
"I told you to soak 'em in three waters," says the fishmonger.
"'Ow much beer is my 'usband to soak 'imself in—tell me that?"
It is time for tact. I whisper in the lady's ear, "Come along—don't argue with a man like that. He's beneath you."