CONFESSIONS OF A MIDDLEMAN.
"What becomes of the old and spoiled poultry?" we asked of a man formerly in the commission business. "What, the 'fruit'? That's what we call poultry too ripe to sell to a man with a good nose." "Yes, where does it go to?" "Most of it is worked off at a big profit by Cheap Johns, who buy it up on purpose." "How do they get people to buy it?" "They stick up a sign offering poultry very cheap. Some economist comes along and picks out a good bird. The dealer is very anxious to wrap it up just right, and takes it behind the counter to do a neat job. Out he comes with a fine package, and the buyer goes home thinking he has made a bargain that will tickle his wife to death. When he opens the package, that bird is strong enough to knock a man down, and they have to throw it away. How was it done?—Simply enough. He didn't get the bird he picked out at all. That dealer had a lot of 'fruit' under the counter all nicely packed. While the customer's eye was turned, he slyly substituted the 'fruit' for the good bird. Very likely he gave him short weight, too, by having a fine wire running from the bottom of his scales where he could press it with his foot. When the customer comes back to make a row about it, the dealer 'never saw him before in his life!'" "Is that the worst of it?" "No, lots of this 'fruit' is eaten. Cheap restaurants buy it, pack it in charcoal, and then make it into salad and similar dishes. It all goes—with plenty of mustard. I once sold three tongues every day to a restaurant keeper. One day he said:— "One of those tongues was a little rank." "Well," I said, "we'll make that good—take another." "Oh, no!" said he, "I just put a little extra mustard on it, and nobody tasted the tongue."—Selected.