“Ah, you may laugh,” he growled. “I dessay, sir, you thinks it’s werry funny; but if you was to go and well soap a young Malay he’d come precious different, I can tell you.”
“But somebody did try to wash a blackamoor white,” said Bob. “Tom Hood says so, in one of his books.”
“Well, and did they get him white, sir?” asked Dick.
“No, I think not,” said Bob. “I almost forget, but I think they gave him such a bad cold that he died.”
“That Tom Hood—was he any relation o’ Admiral Hood, sir?”
“No, I think not, Dick.”
“Then he wasn’t much account being a landsman, I s’pose, and he didn’t understand what he was about. He didn’t use plenty o’ soap.”
“Oh yes, he did, Dick; because I remember he says, a lady gave some:—
“Mrs Hope,
A bar of soap.”
“Then they didn’t lather it well,” said Dick decisively. “And it shows how ignorant they was when they let’s the poor chap ketch cold arter it, and die. Why, bless your ’art, Mr Roberts, sir, if my old mother had had the job, he’d have had no cold. He’d have come out red hot, all of a glow, like as I used, and as white as a lily, or she’d have had all his skin off him.”