Sir Hearty Luncheon, brooding in his business suite or inner sanctum or Holy of Holies in Anchor Road, most certainly did peep through lattices of eyes, and most diligently had learned by circuit and collection to discern. Late into the night, he watched the green figures marching across the screen, listlessly bought and frenetically sold indeterminately identified parcels of money, answered after a delay “come!” to the discreet knocks and coughs of the exquisite twerps loitering without, and informed all and sundry of his continuing inability to bear the cant. —
Anchor Road, Cant, Sir Hearty Luncheon
At length, a familiar visitor was announced. Sir Hearty Luncheon, withal having the presentiment that further cant was in the offing, bethought himself that futility and emptiness might be kept for a space at bay, even if it were at the cost of the cant portended. The familiar visitor was none other than that Aeolus of Mangotsfield who published himself to the world as Mr Don Quicksotte. This demigod or Prometheus, being admitted into the presence, strode over the threshold, gurning as he approached the serengeti of Sir Hearty Luncheon’s desk. Sir Hearty Luncheon, regretting the hastiness of his decision to grant an audience to this monomaniacal loon, inwardly groaned. Mr Don Quicksotte came to a halt just the other side of the burnished acre of tropical hardwood doing duty as the Luncheon desk. Sir Hearty Luncheon gazed upwards, blinded by the light reflected off the bare and equally polished rock of the Quicksotte dome; felt momentarily belittled, in the manner of a Bildungsroman Werther awed by a mountain; toyed then briefly with the idea of installing a Blofeldish arrangement of desk buttons and trapdoors and shark ponds; instead broke the silence with —
Don Quicksotte
“The tidings,” returned the Crassus of the Mendips, “if you please. Without the cant.” —
The Mendips
“Sir Hearty,” said he, “there will shortly be a riot. It is to be preceded by what low types call a charivari. The appetiser for the main course, if you will.” —
charivari, The charivari
“Mr Crass Cheseham to be exact,” replied the booster of wind, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down to the transient delight of Sir Hearty Luncheon. —
Mr Crass Cheseham
Mr Don Quicksotte began to feel very much as though the oxblood leather receptacle into which he found himself folded, not to say engulfed, was a voracious pair of jaws. —
The oxblood leather receptacle
This site would like to use cookies to count visits and measure advertising. Nothing is set unless you accept.
