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Updated: August 31, 2025
Overhead was the week's washing, hanging in festoons so low that Martin did not see at first the two men talking in a corner. They hailed Brissenden and his demijohns with acclamation, and, on being introduced, Martin learned they were Andy and Parry.
He'll talk Nietzsche, or Schopenhauer, or Kant, or anything, but the only thing in this world, not excepting Mary, that he really cares for, is his monism. Haeckel is his little tin god. The only way to insult him is to take a slap at Haeckel." "Here's the hang-out." Brissenden rested his demijohn at the upstairs entrance, preliminary to the climb.
He pulled a manuscript from his inside coat pocket and passed it to Martin, who looked at the title and glanced up curiously. "Yes, that's it," Brissenden laughed. "Pretty good title, eh? 'Ephemera' it is the one word.
He needed a larger income; he wanted to travel in a more satisfactory way than during his late absence. Agnes Brissenden struck him as a very calm and sensible girl; not at all likely to marry any one but the man who would be a suitable companion for her, and probably disposed to look on marriage as a permanent friendship, which must not be endangered by feminine follies.
The next instant Martin's right hand had shot to a throttling clutch on his throat, and he was being shaken till his teeth rattled. But Martin, looking into his eyes, saw no fear there, naught but a curious and mocking devil. Martin remembered himself, and flung Brissenden, by the neck, sidelong upon the bed, at the same moment releasing his hold.
"I'll go you," Martin answered, attempting to pay for the current Scotch and soda with the last change from his two dollars and seeing the waiter bullied by Brissenden into putting that change back on the table. Martin pocketed it with a grimace, and felt for a moment the kindly weight of Brissenden's hand upon his shoulder.
"No decent reporter needs to bother with notes." "That was sufficient for last night." But Brissenden was not a disciple of quietism, and he changed his attitude abruptly. "Martin, if you don't poke him, I'll do it myself, if I fall dead on the floor the next moment." "How will a spanking do?" Martin asked. Brissenden considered judicially, and nodded his head.
Brissenden half rose from his chair as he spoke, as if with the intention of departing to the restaurant forthwith. Martin's fists were tight-clenched, and his blood was drumming in his temples. "Bosco! He eats 'em alive! Eats 'em alive!" Brissenden exclaimed, imitating the spieler of a locally famous snake-eater.
"Either the man was drunk or criminally malicious," he said that afternoon, from his perch on the bed, when Brissenden had arrived and dropped limply into the one chair. "But what do you care?" Brissenden asked. "Surely you don't desire the approval of the bourgeois swine that read the newspapers?" Martin thought for a while, then said: "No, I really don't care for their approval, not a whit.
But Brissenden, breathing painfully, had dropped off to sleep, his chin buried in a scarf and resting on his sunken chest, his body wrapped in the long overcoat and shaking to the vibration of the propellers. The first thing Martin did next morning was to go counter both to Brissenden's advice and command. "The Shame of the Sun" he wrapped and mailed to The Acropolis.
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