"Look at them," says the irate lady, holding out three potatoes.
"Rotten--at thrippence a pound. My 'usband 'e'd 'ave set abaht me if
I'd give 'im them for 'is dinner."
The fruiterer takes a lofty moral standard. "I sold yer them fer seed
pertaters, I did. If yer 'usband eats them 'e's worse than a Un."
"Seed pertaters, was they? Where was I to grow 'em? In a mug on the
mantelpiece?"
"'Ow was I ter know yer 'adn't a 'lotment?"
"You'll need no 'lotment. It's a cemet'ry you'll want when my 'usband
knows you've called 'im a Un."
"Now, now," I interpose tactfully. "Perhaps you can exchange them,
then you'll have the lady for a regular customer."
"I don't want the blighter fer a reglar customer," says the fruiterer.
Three potatoes whirl past me at the fruiterer. The lady with the
bucket departs rapidly.
"Lemme get at 'er," cries the irate fruiterer.
"You wouldn't hit a woman," I protest.
"Wouldn't I?" says the infuriated fruiterer.
I interpose--verbally. "You'll get everything stolen," I say, "from
your stall if you leave it."
"I'll leave you in charge."
"I'm needed down my beat," I reply, and stalk on instantly, leaving a
sadly disillusioned man behind me.