"There now," says a stout lady, "give 'er in charge."
The queue all speak at once.
"She's a 'oarder, she is. Got 'arf-a-pound o' sugar already in 'er
basket and only 'erself and 'er 'usband at 'ome, while I got five
kids."
A lady down the queue caps this with seven kids, and in the distance a
lady in a fur cap claims ten, and is at once engaged by her neighbours
in a bitter controversy as to whether three in France should count in
sugar buying.
All the time the hoarder stands with nose in the air, the picture of
lofty indifference.
Tact--tact--I remember the Inspector's advice.
"Excuse me, Madam," I say, "but in these times we all have to make
sacrifices. You already have sugar. Some of your friends have none.
Under the circumstances--"
Slowly the lady turns a withering eye on me. "I'll move nowhere no'ow
for nobody."
A lady in the background suggests that the female should be boiled in
a sugar-sack. A more humane person expresses the hope that she will be
bombed that night.
"But, Madam, consider your friends," I proceed.
"Don't you call that lot my friends! I'm 'ere fer a pound of marge,
and get it I will if all the bloomin' speshuls come 'oo 're doin'
reglar coppers outer jobs."
Public opinion in the queue takes a sudden turn. One lady remarks that
these speshuls are that interfering. Another alleges that she has no
doubt I have sacks of sugar at home.
I remember the Inspector's counsel about moving on, and move myself
on.
There is one man in England who proclaims himself absolutely unfitted
to fill the Food-Controller's position.