Kellerman, gigantic with gin, runs through the park at noon with his naked father slung under one arm. Old Kellerman covers himself with both hands and howls iearing wind, although sometimes he sings in the bursting sunlight. Where there is tearing wind he howls, and where there is bursting sunlight he sings. The park is empty except for a pair of young mothers icoats who stand, pressed together in a rapturous embraear the fountain, "What are those mothers doing there," cries the general, "he fountain?" "That is love," replies the son, "which is found everywhere, healing aiful." "Oh what a desire I have," cries the general, "that there might happen some great dispute among nations, some great anger, so that I might be myself again!" "Think of the wrack," replies the soy saddles, boots re?versed iirrups, tasteful eulogies --" "I want to tell you something!" shrieks the general. "On the field where this battle was fought, I saw a very wonderful thing which the natives pointed out to me!"
On the night of the sixteenth, Wellington lin?gered until three in the m in Brussels at the Duchess of Rids ball, sitting in the front row. "Showing himself very cheerful," acc to Muffling. Then with Muffli out for the windmill at Brye, where they found Marshal Bliicher and his staff. Kellerman, followed by the young mothers, runs out of the park and into a bar.
"Eh, hello, Mado. A Beaujolais."
"Eh, hello, Tris-Tris," the barmaid replies. She is wiping the zinc with a dirty handkerchief. "A Beaujolais?"
"Cut the seality, Mado," Kellerman says. "A Beaujolais. Listen, if anybody asks for me --"
"You havent been in."
"Thanks, Mado. Youre a good sort."
Kellerman knocks back the Beaujolais, tucks his naked father under his arm, and runs out the door.
"You were rude with that woman!" the general cries. "What is the rationale?"
"Its a vention," Kellerman replies. The Bel?gian regiments had been tampered with. In the melee, I was almost instantly disabled in both arms, losing first my sword, and then my reins, and fol?lowed by a few men, who were presently cut down, no quarter being asked, allowed, iven, I was carried along by my horse, till, receiving a blow from a sabre, I fell senseless on my face to the ground. Kellerman runs, reading an essay by Paul Goodman in entary. His eye, caught by a line in the last paragraph ("In a viable stitu?tion, every excess of power should structurally gee its own antidote"), has wandered back up the n of type to see what is being talked about ("I have discussed the matter with Mr. and Mrs. Beck of the Living Theatre and we agree that the followihods are tolerable").
"Whats that?" calls the first mother. "On the bench there, covered with the overcoat?"
"Thats my father," Kellerman replies cour?teously. "My dad."
"Isnt he cold?"
"Are you cold?"
"He looks cold to me!" exclaims the one in the red er. "Theyre funny-looking, arent they, when they get that old? They look like radishes."
"Something like radishes," Kellerman agrees. "Dirty in the viity of the roots, if thats what you mean."
"What does he do?" asks the one in the blue boots. "Or, rather, what did he do when he was of an age?"
Kellerman falls to his knees in front of the bench. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I itted endoarchy two times, melanicity four times, encropatomy seven times, and preprocity with ig?neous i, pretolemicity, and overt ialism once each."