Virilo, Bredo and Weeto, that
are all so much better than bread, it's a choice between these three.
Bread is never advertised, or God's good wheat.
SLADDER: Mr. Hippanthigh, if I'm too much of a fool to sell my goods I
suffer for it; if they're such fools as to buy my Virilo, they suffer
for it--that is to say, you say they do--that is a natural law that may
be new to you. But why should I suffer more than them? Besides, if I
take my Virilo off the market just to oblige you, Mr. Hippanthigh, a
little matter of L30,000 a year----
HIPPANTHIGH: I--er----
SLADDER: O, don't mention it. Any little trifle to oblige! But if I did,
up would go the sales of Bredo and Weeto (which have nothing to do with
my firm), and your friends wouldn't be any better for that let me tell
you, for I happen to know how _they're_ made.
HIPPANTHIGH: I am not speaking of the wickedness of others. I come to
appeal to you, Mr. Sladder, that for nothing that _you_ do, our English
race shall lose anything of its ancient strength, in its young men in
their prime, or that they should grow infirm a day sooner than God
intended, when He planned his course for man.
ERMYNTRUDE (_off_): Father! Father!
[SLADDER _draws himself up, and stands erect to meet the decisive news
that he has expected.
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