And the several
thousand salespeople in the huge store were slangily nicknamed "Peter
Rolls's hands." But naturally these insignificant morsels of the great
mosaic were not spelled with a capital H, unless, perhaps by
themselves, and once when a vaudeville favourite sang a song, "I'm a
Hand, I'm a Hand." It was a smart song, and made a hit; but Peter
Rolls was said to have paid both the star and the management.
Apparently nothing concerning Peter Rolls, Sr., and his family was
hidden from Mr. Loewenfeld and Miss Seeker, although they claimed no
personal acquaintance with the great. Probably, if Win had asked, they
could have told how many servants Mrs. Rolls kept and how many cases
of champagne her husband ordered in a year. But questions were
unnecessary. The subject of a self-made millionaire was a fascinating
one to the lately naturalized German.
Peter Rolls, Sr., had emigrated from the north of Ireland as a young
boy. He had contrived to buy a few cheap odds and ends likely to
attract women buried in the country far from shops. He had somehow
known exactly what odds and ends to select. That was genius; and he
had coined money as a peddler.
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