cannon ball he had swallowed was rather more evident and shameless than it had been, his skin less fresh and the nose between his glasses, which still didn't quite fit, much redder. And just then he seemed much laxer in his muscles and not quite as alertly quick in his movements. But he evidently wasn't aware of the degenerative nature of his changes as he sat there, looking suddenly quite little under my eyes.
"Well, George!" he said, quite happily unconscious of my silent criticism, "what do you think of it all?"
"Well," I said; "in the first place—it's a damned swindle!"
"Tut! tut!" said my uncle. "It's as straight as It's fair trading!"
"So much the worse for trading," I said.
"It's the sort of thing everybody does. After all, there's no harm in the stuff—and it may do good. It might do a lot of good—giving people confidence, f'rinstance, against an epidemic. See? Why not? I don't see where your swindle comes in."
"H'm," I said. "It's a thing you either see or don't see."
"I'd like to know what sort of trading isn't a swindle in its way. Everybody who does a large advertised trade is selling something common on the strength of saying it's uncommon. Look at Chickson—they made him a baronet. Look at Lord Radmore, who did it on lying about the alkali in soap! Rippin' ads those were of his too!"
"You don't mean to say you think doing this stuff up in bottles and swearing it's the quintessence of strength and making poor devils buy it at that, is straight?"
"Why not, George? How do we know it mayn't
