Peale. But how did you square Marshall Field?
Martin. Oh, I just wired ’em I’d be responsible, and, say—(Turning to Rodney, who rises) you had a nerve to charge ’em sixty cents a cake—and I had to pay the bill! That shipment cost me $3,000 for $150 worth of soap. (Peale laughs) That isn’t funny, young man.
Rodney. No, it isn’t: I thought we’d really made good, and all the time it was you behind us——
Martin. You see, my boy, even if you did nearly trim me, I’ve got a sort of sneaking fondness for you. Look here, son, why not quit? There’s no market for dollar soap.
Rodney. But how do you know?
Martin. I had a letter from Marshall Field a few days ago asking me what to do with the soap. They hadn’t sold a cake. I told ’em to dump it in the Chicago River; it might help to clean it up.
Rodney. But you didn’t give our advertising a chance.
Peale. We only finished a great big advertising campaign in Chicago two days ago.
Rodney. I know the soap’ll make good—with that trade-mark.