SCENE II.—Small Butterman's shop in a poor neighbourhood. Burly white-apron'd Proprietor behind counter. To him enter a pasty-faced Workman, with a greasy pat of something wrapped in a leaf from a ledger.
Workman. I say, Guv'nor, lookye here. This 'ere stuff as you sold my old woman, is simply beastly. I don't believe it's butter at all.
Butterman (sneeringly). And who said it was? What did your Missus buy it as?
Workman. Why, Adipo—whot's it, I believe. But that's only another name for butter of a cheaper sort, ain't it? Anyhow, it's no reason why it should be nasty.
Butterman (loftily). Now look here, my man, what do you expect? That's Adipocerene, that is, and sold as such. If you'll pay for Butter, you can have it; but if you ask for this here stuff, you must take yer chance.
Workman. But what's it made on?
Butterman. That's no business of mine. If you could anerlyse it—(mind, I don't say yer could)—into stale suet and sewer-scrapings, you couldn't prove as it warn't Adipocerene, same as it's sold for, could yer?
Workman (hotly). But hang it, I don't want stale suet and sewer-scrapings, whatsomever you may call it.
Butterman (decisively). Then buy Butter, and pay for it like a man, and don't come a-bothering me about things as I've nothink to do with. If Guv'ment will have it called Adipocerene, and your Missus will buy it becos it's cheap; don't you blame me if you find it nasty, that's all. Good morning!
[Retires up, "swelling visibly."