What a lot of shops seemed to be selling brooms. Yes, and soap. Long bars of yellow soap. There were big advertisements on the boardings. He read them aloud: “WASHO. WORKS BY ITSELF.”
And again: “PINGO FOR THE PAINT. A PENNY PACKET OF PINGO DOES THE TRICK.” There was a picture of a beautiful lady using Pingo, her face expressing rapture.
What did it all mean?
He did not know. But it meant that spring was coming. Spring, with its daffodils, its pretty little birds and all the other things.
He mounted and rode away. A meaningless string of words seemed to circle round and round in his brain.
“Jona. Washo. Crikey.”
At dinner that night, Mabel said: “We shall begin our spring-cleaning to-morrow. I intend that it shall be done particularly thoroughly this year. It will take some weeks and will probably cause you inconvenience. But you like suffering, don’t you?”
“Spring,” said Luke, thoughtfully. “Not all daffodils. No.”
3
A little later Mr. Alfred Jingle, solicitor, talking to his friend the artist, may be permitted to throw some light on events.