“What sort of animal in the shafts?”

“Two—­a pail of Welsh cobs—­good little goers.”

“By jingo!” shouted Gammon, “I’ll tool ’em round myself.  I’m off for to-morrow, and a job of that kind would just suit me.”

Greenacre’s face brightened with relief.  He began to describe the route which the “Saponaria” van had to pursue.

“It’s the south-east suburbs to-morrow, the main thoroughfares of Greenwich, Blackheath, Lewisham, and all round there.  There are certain shops to call at to drop bills and samples; no order-taking.  Here’s the list.  At likely places you throw out a shower of these little blue cards.  Best is near a Board School when the children are about.  I’m greatly obliged to you, Gammon; I never thought you’d be able to do it yourself.  Could you be at the stable just before nine?  I’d meet you and give you a send-off.  Bait at—­where is it?” He consulted the notebook.  “Yes, Prince of Wales’s Feathers, Catford Bridge; no money out of pocket; all settled in the plan of campaign.  Rest the cobs for an hour or so.  Get round to the stables again about five, and I’ll be there.  It’s very Kind of you; I’m very greatly obliged.  And if you could—­without inconvenience—­”

His eyes fell upon Gammon’s clothing, which lay heaped on a chair.  On the part of the man in bed there was a moment’s hesitation, but Gammon had never refused a loan which it was in his power to grant.  In a few minutes he fulfilled his promise to Mrs. Bubb, seeing Greenacre safely out of the house, and making fast the front door again; then he turned in and slept soundly till seven o’clock.

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.  The shopkeeper was in a very disagreeable mood and returned Gammon’s greeting roughly.

“Something wrong?” asked Gammon with his wonted cheeriness.