Rodney. I had an idea a while ago: The People’s Soap.
Peale. Not if you’re going to catch the rich boobs.
Rodney. That’s true.
Peale. We need something that’s universally appealing. What is it? What is it?
Rodney. (Looking off-stage toward where Mary went) Love.
Peale. Slush.
Rodney. Money.
Peale. (Suddenly) I’ve got it: Superstition—everybody’s superstitious.
Rodney. Rot! I’m not.
Peale. I say, there’s a bit of luck for us right at the start—a pin with the head toward you. (Rodney stoops to pick it up) See, you were going to pick it up! Everybody is superstitious. Oh, they say they’re not, just as you did, but did you ever meet a guy who, if he didn’t mind walking under a ladder, didn’t hate to spill salt, or else he wanted to see the moon over his right shoulder—or he picked up pins, or carried a lucky coin, wouldn’t do things on Friday? Why, the whole world’s superstitious. Get something on that and you hit everybody. I’ve got eighty-six horseshoes home myself. I never saw a gink that would sit thirteen at table. We’re all crazy. (They pause and think. They both sit on end of table)