Peter put down the suspicion that he was on a political errand.
“Not that at all, Mr. Killibrew. It's a question of the white race and the black race. The particular feature I am working on is the wages paid to cooks.”
“I didn't know you were a cook,” interjected the grocer in surprise.
“I am not.”
Mr. Killibrew looked at Peter, thought intensely for a few moments, and came to an unescapable conclusion.
“You don't mean you've formed a cook's union here in Hooker's Bend, Peter!” he cried, immensely amazed.
“Not at all. It's this,” clarified Peter. “It may seem trivial, but it illustrates the principle I'm trying to get at. Doesn't your cook carry away cold food?”
It required perhaps four seconds for the merchant to stop his speculations on what Peter had come for and adjust his mind to the question.
“Why, yes, I suppose so,” he agreed, very much at sea. “I—I never caught up with her.” He laughed a pleasant, puzzled laugh. “Of course she doesn't come around and show me what she's making off with. Why?”
“Well, it's this. Wouldn't you prefer to give your cook a certain cash payment instead of having her taking uncertain amounts of your foodstuffs and wearing apparel?”
