He wrote home to his sister in the bitterness of his soul, telling her that all his visions of greatness had ended in bubbles of rainbow hue, and that he was “something in soap.” He felt sorry for having done so as soon as the letter was posted.
He met old Winslow one day in the street, and this gentleman grasped Archie’s small aristocratic hand in his great brown bear’s paw, and congratulated him on having got on his feet at last.
“Yes,” said Archie with a sneer and a laugh, “I’m ‘something in soap.’”
“And soap’s a good thing I can tell you. Soap’s not to be despised. There’s a fortune in soap. I had an uncle in soap. Stick to it, my lad, and it’ll stick to you.”
But when a new apprentice came to the shop one day, and was installed in the front door drug department, while he himself was relegated to the slums at the back, his cup of misery seemed full, and he proceeded forthwith to tell this Mr Glorie what he thought of him. Mr Glorie’s face got longer and longer and longer, and he finally brought his clenched fist down with such a bang on the counter, that every bottle and glass in the place rang like bells.
“I’ll have the law on you,” he shouted.
“I don’t care; I’ve done with you. I’m sick of you and your soap.”
He really did not mean to do it; but just at that moment his foot kicked against a huge earthenware jar full of oil, and shivered it in pieces.
“You’ve broke your indenture! You—you—”
“I’ve broken your jar, anyhow,” cried Archie.