CHAPTER XVI 



THE SELLING OF THE SURPLUS 



ONE lovely September day, when the fogs 

 of London were noteworthy through 

 their absence, I was wandering along King's 

 Road through the heart of historic Chelsea, 

 when it occurred to me to find out where 

 the fine-looking beef came from which I had 

 noticed hanging in the stalls along the way. 

 King's Road is a crowded retail street of rather 

 small, but well-to-do, business houses. In an 

 hour or so I called in at a dozen markets. In 

 each instance, I asked the dealer what kind of 

 beef he was selling, and, looking sharply at me, 

 he answered with more or less trace of dialect, 

 according as he was provincial or city bred: 

 "Prime Scottish, sir; the best in the world." 



Or, it might be, this remark was varied now 

 and then by the statement that it was the 

 finest English beef on the market. In every 

 instance but two, however, after I had ex- 

 plained that I was an American, and was 



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