'Here ye are, gen-till-men! This fine de-tersive soap--on-ly thrippence
a tab-let--takes stains out of all kinds of things. Step up while there
air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.'
'Who's that guy in the soap-trade?' asked one policeman of another one
as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation
is reported above.
'He's a deep one, hi know,' said the one asked. ''Is name is Grayle,
Louis Grayle. There's hodd stories 'bout 'im, werry hodd. 'E tries to
work a werry wiry dodge on the johnny-raws, bout bein' ha 'undred hand
ten years hold. Says 'e's got some kind o' water wot kips hun' from
growink hold, My heye! strikes me if 'e 'ad, 'e wouldn't bein' sellin'
soap 'bout 'ere. Go hup to 'im hand tell 'im to move hon, 'e's ben
wurkin this lay long enough, I _ham_ thinkin'.
Such, gentle reader, was the condition of Louis Grayle when I last saw
him. By the assistance of confederates and other means, he had imposed
on our good friend Doctor Fenwick, in former years, and nearly driven
that poor gentleman crazy during his celibacy, especially as the doctor
in all this period would smoke hasheesh and drink laudanum
cocktails--two little facts neglected to be mentioned in 'A Strange
Story.' Now, he was poor as a crow, this Louis Grayle, and was only too
glad to turn the information he had learned of Haroun of Aleppo, to
profitable account--the most valuable knowledge he had gained from that
Oriental sage being the composition of a soap, good to erase stains from
habits.