“Are you all here?”
A shrill roar of language answered. He looked contemptuously around him, upon the thirty clamouring faces each of which wanted to eat him—puttees, revolver and all. Then he cried:
“Allez, descendez.”
Squirming, jostling, fighting, roaring, we poured slowly through the doorway. Ridiculously. Horribly. I felt like a glorious microbe in huge absurd din irrevocably swathed. B. was beside me. A little ahead Monsieur Auguste’s voice protested. Count Bragard brought up the rear.
When we reached the corridor nearly all the breath was knocked out of me. The corridor being wider than the stairs allowed me to inhale and look around. B. was yelling in my ear:
“Look at the Hollanders and the Belgians! They’re always ahead when it comes to food!”
Sure enough: John the Bathman, Harree and Pompom were leading this extraordinary procession. Fritz was right behind them, however, and pressing the leaders hard. I heard Monsieur Auguste crying in his child’s voice:
“If every-body goes slow-er we will ar-rive soon-er. You mustn’t act like that!”
Then suddenly the roar ceased. The mêlée integrated. We were marching in orderly ranks. B. said:
“The Surveillant!”