At a time when not a potato was to be found in all Kensington, the Food
Controller decided to form the Potato Appropriations Department. I was
put at its head and received my orders direct from that supreme
official.
Up to the moment of being called upon to take up this important post I
was a Captain on the Staff of an Artillery Headquarters, and my
ignorance of the finer points of the potato was profound. It was
therefore with some trepidation that I proceeded to hold a lengthy
consultation with the Controller on the subject of the organisation and
general duties of my department. My official title, I was told, was
Appropriator of Tubers. I was further informed that, until the
department got into the swing of routine, it had better work under the
direct supervision of the Food Controller. I agreed.
I was then taken into the Controller's confidence with regard to a
certain matter, and it was suggested that I should see to it.
I demurred on the ground that I did not yet feel myself a sufficient
authority on the potato to carry out this particular duty; but the
Controller overcame my objection by sending for a Mrs. Marrow, an expert
on the Potato Utilisation Board. She appeared, a plump middle-aged lady,
attired appropriately in a costume of workmanlike simplicity.
Thus reinforced, I ordered the car and drove to Whitechapel. At the end
of a street, whose gutters were full of vegetable garbage I stopped,
and, descending, beckoned imperiously to an adjacent policeman.
"On duty for the Food Controller, constable," I said. "Take me to the
nearest greengrocer, please."
He saluted respectfully and led the way to where a long queue, armed
with a varied assortment of baskets and bags, waited impatiently and
clamoured. A hush fell on our approach. Two more policemen who now
appeared on the scene constituted themselves my retinue. Through a lane
opened in the throng I made a stately entrance, Mrs. Marrow and the
police bringing up the rear. I was confronted by a large flabby
individual, who grasped a cabbage in one hand and a number of
mangel-wurzels in the other.
"Good morning, Sir," I remarked courteously but firmly. "You are the
proprietor of this shop, I presume?"
His reply left no room for doubt.
"I am the A.T.," I said impressively, indicating the red brassard of
office presented to me by the Food Controller. "In case you do not know
what that means, I am the Appropriator of Tubers. A tuber, Sir, is a
potato. Now it has been brought to the notice of my chief, the Food
Controller, that certain vendors of vegetables are seeking to defraud
the public by selling as potatoes a totally different kind of vegetable
disguised with colouring matter and rubbed with earth."
I paused to allow this weighty announcement to sink in. My audience
gaped. I continued--
"Acting on orders received from the Controller I am making a series of
surprise inspections with a view to discovering the guilty parties, who
will be proceeded against under section A, subsection 2, paragraph 1,769
of Part III. of King's Reg's.--I mean, the Defence of the Realm Act. I
particularly wish you to understand," I went on ruthlessly, nipping an
indignant protest in the bud, "that I do not for a moment allege,
suggest or insinuate that you specifically are one of these
potato-swindlers; nevertheless I have my duty to do, and I must ask you
here and now to lay out your entire stock for inspection."
The flabby individual wiped his forehead and signed to a trembling
assistant.
"Get 'em art," he said. "Fer Gawd's sake, get 'em art!"
Six bushel baskets of the precious vegetables were brought and laid in a
row at my feet.
"Perhaps, Madam," I said, turning to Mrs. Marrow, "you will be so kind
as to inspect these--ah, tubers. Mrs. Marrow," I explained to the
greengrocer, "the famous tuber expert."
In silence Mrs. Marrow began to overhaul the contents of the baskets,
every now and then picking out a particularly choice specimen, which she
added to an accumulating pile on the floor.
"Aha! Suspects!" I exclaimed grimly. "I shall take all these to the
laboratory at the Food Controller's Headquarters, where Mrs. Marrow will
submit each tuber to a meticulous test in order to satisfy herself as to
its _bona fides_. You will be gratified to hear that, should your
potatoes prove to be all they seem, the Controller will issue you a blue
card, registering you as a certified vendor of Government-tested
potatoes. This you may place in your window for the information of your
customers. If the test proves unsatisfactory"--I paused. In the deathly
silence the heavy breathing of Mrs. Marrow was distinctly audible--"you
will hear further," I concluded. "Weigh these suspects."
They turned the scale at eighteen pounds.
"Since in any case the potatoes will be rendered unfit for consumption
by the rigorous process through which they will be passed, I am
empowered by the Food Controller to compensate you in advance, at a rate
not exceeding sevenpence per pound, out of the special appropriation
funds, this sum to be returned in the event of the test proving
unsatisfactory."
So saying I handed him ten-and-sixpence. The basket was carried out to
the car by one of the guardians of law and order. Then I headed for
Kensington.
The Food Controller met us breathlessly at the door.
"Oh, what darlings!" she exclaimed. "Do you think they will last out the
master's leave?"
"They've jolly well got to," declared the master promptly. "There are
limits, Elsie, to the elasticity of conscience. Besides, my ability to
maintain a flow of official phraseology is exhausted."
The Food Controller kissed me very sweetly. It was cheap at
ten-and-sixpence.
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