Sladder.
SLADDER: Ah! So I've got the best of you?
HIPPANTHIGH: Yes, Mr. Sladder. I'm not so clever as you.
SLADDER: Glad you admit the point. As for cleverness it isn't that I've
so much of that, but I use what I've got. Well, have you anything more
to say?
HIPPANTHIGH: Only to appeal to you, Mr. Sladder, on behalf of these poor
people.
SLADDER: Why. But you admitted one must have business, and that it can't
be run like a tea-party. What more do you want?
HIPPANTHIGH: I want you to spare them, Mr. Sladder.
SLADDER: Spare them? Spare them? Why, what's the matter with them? I'm
not killing them.
HIPPANTHIGH: No, Mr. Sladder, you're not killing them. The mortality
among children's a bit on the high side, but I wouldn't say that was
entirely due to your bread. There's a good many minor ailments among the
grown-up people, it seems to attack their digestion mostly, one can't
trace each case to its source; but their health and their teeth aren't
what they were when they had the pure wheaten bread.
SLADDER: But there _is_ wheat in my bread, prepared by a special
process.
HIPPANTHIGH: Ah! It's that special process that does it, I expect.
SLADDER: Well, they needn't buy it if it isn't good.
HIPPANTHIGH: Ah, they can't help themselves, poor fools; they've been
taught to do it from their childhood up.
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