In a way that definition made me
patient. "Presently I shall get to London," I said, echoing him.
I remember him now as talking, always talking, in those days. He talked
to me of theology, he talked of politics, of the wonders of science
and the marvels of art, of the passions and the affections, of
the immortality of the soul and the peculiar actions of drugs; but
predominantly and constantly he talked of getting on, of enterprises,
of inventions and great fortunes, of Rothschilds, silver kings,
Vanderbilts, Goulds, flotations, realisations and the marvelous ways
of Chance with men--in all localities, that is to say, that are not
absolutely sunken to the level of Cold Mutton Fat.
When I think of those early talks, I figure him always in one of three
positions. Either we were in the dispensing lair behind a high barrier,
he pounding up things in a mortar perhaps, and I rolling pill-stuff into
long rolls and cutting it up with a sort of broad, fluted knife, or
he stood looking out of the shop door against the case of sponges and
spray-diffusers, while I surveyed him from behind the counter, or he
leant against the little drawers behind the counter, and I hovered
dusting in front.
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