"Are you coming down? I've laid the table and the food is ready," Ambrose called from the bottom of the stairs.
"Go to hell!"
"Come along, Moropulos. What is the sense of this? I am sorry I touched you."
"You'll be more sorry," screamed the Greek. His voice sounded deafeningly near for he had opened the door. "You dog, you—"
Mr. Moropulos had a wider range of expletives than most men. Ambrose listened without listening.
Pulling out a chair from the table, he sat down and began his dinner. He heard the feet of the drunkard pacing the floor above, heard the rumble of his voice and then the upper door was flung violently open and the feet of Moropulos clattered down the stairs. He had taken off his coat and his waistcoat. His beard flowed over a colored silk shirt, beautifully embroidered. But it was the thing in his hand that Ambrose saw, and, seeing, rose.
The man's face was white with rage; an artery in his neck was pulsating visibly. "You pulled my beard—you ignorant negro—you nigger thing—you damned convict! You're going on your knees to lick my boots—my boots, not Beryl's, you old fool—"
Ambrose did not move from the position he had taken on the other side of the table.
"Down, down, down!" shrieked Moropulos, his pistol waving wildly.
Ambrose Sault obeyed, but not as Moropulos had expected. Suddenly he dropped out of view behind the edge of the white cloth and in the same motion he launched himself under the table, toward the man. In a second he had gripped him by the ankles and thrown him—the pistol dropped almost into his hands.