Bartolome Esteban Murillo The Little Fruit Seller

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they’ll say we went bankrupt!’
‘Look, I know where I can get some coloured woodcuts done at practically cost–’
‘–I was finking, maybe if I got some string and tied the moving picture box on to wheels, so it can be moved around–’
‘‘More . . . more of a device,’ said the Bursar uncertainly. He gave it a prod. Several of the pottery elephants wobbled. ‘Riktor the Tinkerer built it, I think. It was before my time.’
It looked like a large, ornate pot, almost as high as a man of large pot height. Around its rim eight pottery elephants hung from little bronze chains; one of them swung backwards and forwards at the Bursar’s touch. People’ll say, that Silverfish, there’s a moving-picture-smith with the guts to give the people what they want, they’ll say. A man to roll back the wossname of the medium–’ ‘–maybe if I was to make a sort of pole and swivel arrangement, we could bring the picture box right up close to–’ ‘What? You think they’ll say that?’ ‘Trust me, Tommy.’ ‘Well . . . all right. All right. But no elephants. I want to make that absolutely clear. No elephants.’ ‘Looks weird to me,’ said the Archchancellor. ‘Looks like a bunch of pottery elephants. Thought you said it was a machine?’