interesting and kept it up for years. "Does me good, George, to see the
chaps behind their counters like I was once," he explained. My special
and distinctive duty was to give Tono-Bungay substance and an outward
and visible bottle, to translate my uncle's great imaginings into the
creation of case after case of labelled bottles of nonsense, and the
punctual discharge of them by railway, road and steamer towards
their ultimate goal in the Great Stomach of the People. By all modern
standards the business was, as my uncle would say, "absolutely bona
fide." We sold our stuff and got the money, and spent the money honestly
in lies and clamour to sell more stuff. Section by section we spread
it over the whole of the British Isles; first working the middle-class
London suburbs, then the outer suburbs, then the home counties, then
going (with new bills and a more pious style of "ad") into Wales, a
great field always for a new patent-medicine, and then into Lancashire.

My uncle had in his inner office a big map of England, and as we took
up fresh sections of the local press and our consignments invaded new
areas, flags for advertisements and pink underlines for orders showed
our progress.

"The romance of modern commerce, George!" my uncle would say, rubbing
his hands together and drawing in air through his teeth. "The romance of
modern commerce, eh? Conquest. Province by province. Like sogers."

We subjugated England and Wales; we rolled over the Cheviots with a
special adaptation containing eleven per cent. of absolute alcohol;
"Tono-Bungay: Thistle Brand." We also had the Fog poster adapted to a
kilted Briton in a misty Highland scene.

Under the shadow of our great leading line we were presently taking