All went well in the morning. The sun shone and there was a pleasant
north-west breeze; in high spirits Gammon mounted the big but light
van, which seemed to shout in its brilliancy of red and blue paint.
It was some time since he had had the pleasure of driving a pair.
Greenacre had not overpraised the cobs; their start promised an
enjoyable day. He was not troubled by any sense of indignity
unfailing humour and a vast variety of experience preserved him from
such thoughts. As always, he threw himself into the business of the
moment with conscientious gusto; he had "Saponaria" at heart, and
was as anxious to advertise the new washing powder as if the profits
were all his own. At one spot where a little crowd chanced to gather
about the van he delivered an address, a fervid eulogy of
"Saponaria," declaring his conviction (based on private
correspondence) that in a week or two it would be exclusively used
in all the laundries of the Royal Family.
At one shop where he was instructed to call he found a little trap
waiting, and as he entered there came out a man whom he knew by
sight, evidently a traveller, who mounted the trap and drove off.
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