"You know how they look at you. His stuff was soap, I'm pretty
nearly certain. And he had a name--And the thing was the straightest
Bit-of-All-right you ever. I was clear enough to spot that..."

We went out at last with knitted brows, and wandered up into Finsbury
seeking a good, well-stocked looking grocer. We called first on a
chemist for a pick-me-up for my uncle, and then we found the shop we
needed.

"I want," said my uncle, "half a pound of every sort of soap you got.
Yes, I want to take them now. Wait a moment, George.... Now what sort of
soap d'you call THAT?"

At the third repetition of that question the young man said, "Moggs'
Domestic."

"Right," said my uncle. "You needn't guess again. Come along, George,
let's go to a telephone and get on to Moggs. Oh--the order? Certainly. I
confirm it. Send it all--send it all to the Bishop of London; he'll have
some good use for it--(First-rate man, George, he is--charities and all
that)--and put it down to me, here's a card--Ponderevo--Tono-Bungay."

Then we went on to Moggs and found him in a camel-hair dressing-jacket
in a luxurious bed, drinking China tea, and got the shape of everything
but the figures fixed by lunch time.

Young Moggs enlarged my mind considerably; he was a sort of thing
I hadn't met before; he seemed quite clean and well-informed and he
assured me to never read newspapers nor used soap in any form at all,
"Delicate skin," he said.