"HERRINGS FOR NOTHING"
I want you to think of a bitter, east windy day, fast-falling snow, and a
short, muddy street in London. Put these thoughts together, and add to them
the picture of a tall, stout man, in a rough greatcoat, and with a large
comforter round his neck, buffeting through wind and storm. The darkness is
coming rapidly, as a man with a basket on his head turns the corner of the
street, and there are two of us on opposite sides. He cries loudly as he
goes: "Herrings! three a penny! Red herrings, good and cheap, three a
penny!" So crying, he passes along the street, crosses at its end, and
comes to where I am standing at the corner. Here he pauses, evidently
wishing to fraternize with somebody, as a relief from the dull time and
disappointed hopes of trade. I presume I appear a suitable object, as he
comes close to me and begins conversation:--
"Governor, what do you think of these yer herrings?"--three in his hand,
while the remaining stock are deftly balanced in the basket on his head.
"Don't you think they're good?" and he offered me the opportunity of
testing them by scent, which I courteously but firmly declined, "and don't
you think they're cheap as well?"