"Since we met in the afternoon," he said, "I have written a letter to
your dean, expressing the great pleasure I felt in listening to your
choir, and at the same time I inclosed a five-pound note, which I begged
him to divide among the choir boys and men, from Alexander Poulter, Esq.,
of Poulter's Pills. You have of course heard of the world-renowned
Poulter's Pills. I am Poulter!"
Poulter of Poulter's Pills! My heart sank within me! A five-pound note! My
airy castles were tottering!
"I also sent him a couple of hundred of my pamphlets, which I said I
trusted he would be so kind as to distribute in the close."
I was aghast!
"And now, with regard to the special object of my call, Mr. Dale. If you
will allow me to say so, you are not making the most of that grand voice
of yours; you are hidden under an ecclesiastical bushel here--lost to the
world. You are wasting your vocal strength and sweetness on the desert
air, so to speak. Why, if I may hazard a guess, I don't suppose you make
five hundred a year here, at the outside?"
I could say nothing.
"Well, now, I can put you into the way of making at least three or four
times as much as that. Listen! I am Alexander Poulter, of Poulter's Pills.
I have a proposal to make to you. The scheme is bound to succeed, but I
want your help. Accept my proposal and your fortune's made.
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