Things of this sort--things which are
always inside of us and, in fact, are us and which consequently will not
be pushed off or away where we can begin thinking about them--are no
longer things; they, and the us which they are, equals A Verb; an IS. The
Zulu, then, I must perforce call an IS.
In this chapter I shall pretend briefly to describe certain aspects and
attributes of an IS. Which IS we have called The Zulu, who Himself
intrinsically and indubitably escapes analysis. _Allons!_
Let me first describe a Sunday morning when we lifted our heads to the
fight of the stove-pipes.
I was awakened by a roar, a human roar, a roar such as only a Hollander
can make when a Hollander is honestly angry. As I rose from the domain of
the subconscious, the idea that the roar belonged to Bill The Hollander
became conviction. Bill The Hollander, alias America Lakes, slept next to
The Young Pole (by whom I refer to that young stupid-looking farmer with
that peaches-and-cream complexion and those black puttees who had formed
the rear rank, with the aid of The Zulu Himself, upon the arrival of
Babysnatcher, Bill, Box, Zulu, and Young Pole aforesaid). Now this same
Young Pole was a case. Insufferably vain and self-confident was he.
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