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.