Page 170 - BraveNewWorld

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arrows, feathers, glue-pot and brush in all directions.
“I beg your pardon,” said the reporter, with genuine compunction. “I had no
intention .” He touched his hat-the aluminum stove-pipe hat in which he carri-
ed his wireless receiver and transmitter. “Excuse my not taking it off,” he said.
“It’s a bit heavy. Well, as I was saying, I am the representative of The Hourly .”
“What do you want?” asked the Savage, scowling. The reporter returned his
most ingratiating smile.

“Well, of course, our readers would be profoundly interested .” He put his head
on one side, his smile became almost coquettish. “Just a few words from you,
Mr. Savage.” And rapidly, with a series of ritual gestures, he uncoiled two
wires connected to the portable battery buckled round his waist; plugged them
simultaneously into the sides of his aluminum hat; touched a spring on the
crown-and antennæ shot up into the air; touched another spring on the peak of
the brim-and, like a jack-in-the-box, out jumped a microphone and hung there,
quivering, six inches in front of his nose; pulled down a pair of receivers over
his ears; pressed a switch on the left side of the hat-and from within came a faint
waspy buzzing; turned a knob on the right-and the buzzing was interrupted by
a stethoscopic wheeze and cackle, by hiccoughs and sudden squeaks. “Hullo,”
he said to the microphone, “hullo, hullo .” A bell suddenly rang inside his hat.
“Is that you, Edzel? Primo Mellon speaking. Yes, I’ve got hold of him. Mr.
Savage will now take the microphone and say a few words. Won’t you, Mr.
Savage?” He looked up at the Savage with another of those winning smiles of
his. “Just tell our readers why you came here. What made you leave London
(hold on, Edzel!) so very suddenly. And, of course, that whip.” (The Savage
started. How did they know about the whip?) “We’re all crazy to know about
the whip. And then something about Civilization. You know the sort of stuff.
’What I think of the Civilized Girl.’ Just a few words, a very few .”
The Savage obeyed with a disconcerting literalness. Five words he uttered and
no more-five words, the same as those he had said to Bernard about the Arch-
Community-Songster of Canterbury. “Háni! Sons éso tse-ná!” And seizing the
reporter by the shoulder, he spun him round (the young man revealed himself
invitingly well-covered), aimed and, with all the force and accuracy of a cham-
pion foot-and-mouth-baller, delivered a most prodigious kick.
Eight minutes later, a new edition of The Hourly Radio was on sale in the streets
of London. “HOURLY RADIO REPORTER HAS COCCYX KICKED BY MYS-
TERY SAVAGE,” ran the headlines on the front page. “SENSATION IN SUR-
REY.”
“Sensation even in London,” thought the reporter when, on his return, he read
the words. And a very painful sensation, what was more. He sat down gingerly
to his luncheon.

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