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Updated: June 30, 2025
The magazines were all Brissenden had said they were and more. Well, he was done, he solaced himself. He had hitched his wagon to a star and been landed in a pestiferous marsh. The visions of Tahiti clean, sweet Tahiti were coming to him more frequently.
Twilight was falling as Martin left the fruit store and turned homeward, his marketing on his arm. At the corner an electric car had stopped, and at sight of a lean, familiar figure alighting, his heart leapt with joy. It was Brissenden, and in the fleeting glimpse, ere the car started up, Martin noted the overcoat pockets, one bulging with books, the other bulging with a quart bottle of whiskey.
Why, man, I could insult you by asking you to have something to eat." Martin felt the heat in his face of the involuntary blood, and Brissenden laughed triumphantly. "A full man is not insulted by such an invitation," he concluded. "You are a devil," Martin cried irritably. "Anyway, I didn't ask you." "You didn't dare." "Oh, I don't know about that. I invite you now."
"I think, you know, she ought to seem just SLIGHTLY aware that the man to her left is talking to her...." A few days later Benham went down to Cambridge, where Prothero was now a fellow of Trinity and Brissenden Trust Lecturer.... All through Benham's writing there was manifest a persuasion that in some way Prothero was necessary to his mind. It was as if he looked to Prothero to keep him real.
The grass-walled castle and the white, coppered schooner were very near to him. Well, at any rate he had discovered Brissenden's contention that nothing of merit found its way into the magazines. His own success demonstrated that Brissenden had been wrong. And yet, somehow, he had a feeling that Brissenden had been right, after all.
With that the cub passed out the door in trepidation to the last for fear that Brissenden would hit him in the back with the bottle he still clutched. In the next morning's paper Martin learned a great deal more about himself that was new to him. "We are the sworn enemies of society," he found himself quoted as saying in a column interview. "No, we are not anarchists but socialists."
Martin noticed him no more that evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great apparent success with several of the young women. It chanced that when Martin was leaving, he overtook Brissenden already half down the walk to the street. "Hello, is that you?" Martin said. The other replied with an ungracious grunt, but swung alongside.
He invariably paid the way for both, and it was through him that Martin learned the refinements of food, drank his first champagne, and made acquaintance with Rhenish wines. But Brissenden was always an enigma. With the face of an ascetic, he was, in all the failing blood of him, a frank voluptuary.
"It has been refused by twenty-seven of them." Brissenden essayed a long and hearty laugh, but broke down in a fit of coughing. "Say, you needn't tell me you haven't tackled poetry," he gasped. "Let me see some of it." "Don't read it now," Martin pleaded. "I want to talk with you. I'll make up a bundle and you can take it home."
But he noted that Brissenden had what Professor Caldwell lacked namely, fire, the flashing insight and perception, the flaming uncontrol of genius. Living language flowed from him.
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