W. C. Fields : his follies and fortunes (1949)

Up to this week it was all right, if I took it slow, but that last load of succotash is more than I can handle." "Can't get to bed, eh?" said Fields. "No, sir — I fell down twice last night," and she thrust out the shin again. "Well, now, we'll think of something, don't you fret," said Fields soothingly, afraid she would sue him. He weighed the problem for several days, meanwhile holding up on purchases, and finally announced that he had worked it out fine. The only thing to do, he said, was pick out a couple of items and keep them in his room. For some reason he settled on beets and apricots. The rumor once reached Fields' friends that he was planning to visit a black market. They determined to stop him. John Decker obtained the address of the place, then drove there and struck a deal with the proprietor. By the time Fields arrived, with a commodious carrier for his acquisitions, the artist was dressed in a white apron and was wearing a false beard. He came forward with cringing servility and said, "Wish something, sir?" "I'm having a look around," Fields told him. "Make yourself at home, sir," said Decker, and followed along behind. He kept muttering as they walked down the aisles, and Fields looked back sharply from time to time. He made out occasional words that sounded like "rich old bastards" and "no-good capitalist cheats." He grew increasingly nervous as his inspection drew on and the phrases became more insultingly distinct. Finally he blew up and turned around, ready to do battle. "You're selling the stuff, aren't you, you goddamned gangster?" he yelled. He set up a noisy tirade of abusive language directed at "grafters who take advantage of those fine boys fighting out there." Decker pulled off his beard and said, "Glad to hear you say so, Bill. We feel exactly the same." 3i7