Dapper in his fisherman’s sweater and jodhpurs embroidered with silverfish, the jester thinks himself a fine figure of a man. In a good light you might notice that his shirt is a little faded, that his shoes are tawdry, that he still has a couple of rollers left at the back of his hair, to illustrate the pains he has taken to in preparation. But the light in the huts is not good, and so he looks at his reflection in the polished coaster with unwarranted pleasure. He is the joker in the pack of hosts at this national supper, at which octopuses will dance with themselves, and herons fish for compliments. He furnishes the whole affair with that air of demi-monde. Oh, the jester, the guests will say: you know what he’s like, with his commas and his moons, his fish-on-a-Friday, his xtra-large portions. Fishhooks and knickerwhiskers, how he fancies himself. What a pollock!
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