When Tom and I were in the street I opened one of my pink boxes and squinted at its contents sort of reverent-like. And I flushed with shame in the thought that only recently I had regarded this wonder soap—this miracle soap—as a fake.
While we were standing there, a familiar pottering figure came into sight in the street. It was the old soap man. He was awfully excited. His eyes bulged and his mouth was open. He was panting, sort of. And his stiff legs were going up and down like a jumping jack’s.
“I just got a letter,” he heaved, “from a Tutter lady by the name of Mary Prindle.” He focused his bulging eyes on us, “Do you know her, boys?”
I nodded.
“Yesterday,” I told him, still bewildered, “she was as homely as a warty cabbage; and to-day she looks like Mary Pickford on parade.” [[123]]
“It’s my soap,” the old man waggled, breathing hard. “My wonder soap. She used it last night, an’ now she’s goin’ in the movies.”
Miss Prindle in the movies! I stared at him.
“She says so in her letter. Read it.”
I did. Here it is:
Dear Mr. Posselwait:
I feel in duty bound to tell you what excellent results I have gotten from your wonder soap, Bubbles of Beauty. In just one night your soap has transformed me into a dream of beauty. I am seriously thinking of going into the movies.
Miss Mary Prindle.