Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [284]
“Hot stuff,” Pat whispered to Studs, while many in the theater laughed.
“Boy, that would be great fun,” Ike whispered.
The laughter in the theater increased at the sight of a wobbling fat man, surrounded by enemies who subjected him to a merciless fire of eggs, spluttering and staining his white clothing.
“That’s a shampoo, what’s a shampoo,” the announcer called with formalized enthusiasm as a detachment closed in on the fat man and broke his own basket of eggs over his head.
In a close-up, the fat man bawled like a baby, his hair matted, egg shells clinging to his face, his double chins dripping egg yolks.
“And watch this charge of the light brigade!” the announcer called as a crowd swept over the field of stricken eggs into the maw of a heavy fire. “We can’t say that’s not fun, and all in a novel manner which reduces the surplus of eggs, making it profitable for those who sell them. A new way of scrambling eggs, if you ask me.”
Studs leaned forward, laughing. Wished he was in a fight like that.
NAVY BOMBERS GUARD AIR LANES
“Uncle Sam’s latest bombers take to the clouds in a trial test of speed and endurance.”
With purring motors, a winged formation of heavy bombing planes streaked evenly across low plains that were cut by a river. A closer shot revealed one plane riding against a background of clouds, and then the formation rode steadily above the Pacific Ocean.
“A comforting reception committee for unwanted guests at our coast line. The pick of the Navy’s air fleet, Uncle Sam’s latest bid for supremacy of the skies.”
PITCHED BATTLE BETWEEN STRIKERS AND POLICE
“And now, here is a serious battle . . .”
Grim-faced men in working clothes and overalls with an interspersing of women in their ranks marched slowly along a high fence surrounding a factory in a mid-western town, watched by special deputies who stood at regularly-spaced intervals with clubs and truncheons ready. Above the geometrically patterned factory windows, two chimneys smoked.
“When non-striking workers attempted to relieve the day shift at this factory, they were attacked by strikers. And look at this for a sample of some real serious rioting,” the announcer called in the same tone as if he were describing a heroic hundred-yard run on a college gridiron, and simultaneously with his words the screen presented men struggling and grappling, tugging, wrestling, raising a cloud of dust, and howling and cursing as they fought, groups coming together amidst flying bricks and swinging clubs, policemen breaking groups apart, shagging overalled men from the factory gates with raised clubs. A fleeing man in overalls was clubbed by a policeman, and as he fell groggily forward, a special deputy smashed him on the shoulder with a truncheon. He lay face forward in the center of the picture, blood oozing from his head, and the struggling crowd surged over his body.
Guarded by policemen with drawn guns, a sick-faced, injured, bleeding group of strikers sat dazed in the dusty street, and one full-faced policeman turned to smile into the camera.
“Poor bastards,” Pat mumbled.
“This unfortunate riot resulted in the injury of scores. Two strikers and one deputy were taken to a local hospital in a critical condition with their skulls fractured. Not the best form of sport, I’d say, and it is to be regretted that such altercations occur and to be hoped that they are not repeated.”
LOCAL CITIZENS BURY OLD MAN DEPRESSION
“And now, did anyone ever hear of a joyful funeral?”
A hearse drove slowly forward along the cartracks of a decorated and crowded street, its side strung with a large banner.
OLD MAN DEPRESSION DIED 1931. R. I. P.
A band playing the wedding march from Lohengrin