Fresh Every Hour: Detailing the Adventures, Comic and Pathetic of One Jimmy Martin, Purveyor of Publicity, a Young Gentleman Possessing Sublime Nerve, Whimsical Imagination, Colossal Impudence, and, Withal, the Heart of a Child.Toohey, John Peter
General
Fresh Every Hour: Detailing the Adventures, Comic and Pathetic of One Jimmy Martin, Purveyor of Publicity, a Young Gentleman Possessing Sublime Nerve, Whimsical Imagination, Colossal Impudence, and, Withal, the Heart of a Child.
Toohey, John Peter
Press agents -- Fiction
He seemed to have no carefully calculated plan of campaign and no
particular objective. A general demolishment of all existing
institutions, a comprehensive destruction of private property in general
and a leveling of class distinctions appeared to be his vague aim. He
leaped through a frame on which one of the natives was weaving a
blanket, completely ruining the work of months; he overturned a shelf
full of crude earthenware jugs which the potter of the establishment had
contrived; and he playfully kissed the stout and principal wife of Mumbo
Tom, the chief of the village. When that venerable worthy attempted to
remonstrate in an outburst of outraged dignity, he tweaked the old
fellow’s nose three times in rapid succession.
Passing out through the main gateway of the village into the esplanade
he continued his ruthless assaults on organized society. Uttering weird
and entirely unintelligible invocations to the spirits of his savage
ancestors in a high-pitched voice, he vaulted on to the back of a
patient-looking camel which was being groomed by a red-fezzed Egyptian
from Greenville, Mississippi, preparatory to being ridden by visitors to
the park at twenty-five cents per head. He dug his bare heels into the
beast’s sides and emitted a wild whoop. The camel turned her head,
surveyed him rather bewilderingly and started down the roadway on a
brisk canter for about a hundred feet. Then she gave a little snort and
heaved her humps convulsively. The social rebel from the South Seas shot
through the air and landed in the direct center of a booth presided over
by a gentleman from Nippon and devoted to what is known as the “Japanese
ball game.” The results here were disastrous. When he picked himself
from the clutter of broken china and glass with which he was almost
entirely covered his head was bloody, but unbowed. He shook himself like
some shaggy dog just emerging from a dip in the ocean, bounded over the
counter and made for Antonio Amado’s wild animal show, pursued by a
howling mob of attendants and special policemen who had gathered from
the four corners of the park.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account