"You're a common impostor!" said the manager.
I edged along the lounge and peeped through the half-open door. The Grey One was standing with his legs apart, like the Colossus of Rhodes. Too much meat and drink had combined with anger and fear to turn his evil face nearly purple. At a safe distance stood the waiter, pale and excited, with the Grey One's bill on a silver salver. Two other waiters and the porter were massed across the doorway in case the Grey One should take to his long, horrid legs. The manager, implacable and contemptuous, leaned against his office door.
"What's all this beastly row about?" asked one of the guests of the hotel, a young Englishman, coming irritably out of the salle-à-manger.
"I'm deeply sorry, sir. This ... gentleman," said the manager, with a withering look at the Grey One, "has eaten his luncheon and doesn't want to pay for it."
"He won't pay," echoed the waiter feebly.
"It's a [----] lie," bellowed the Grey One. "I will pay. I want to pay. But I'm not going to be [----] well swindled. It's the same as knocking me down and going through my [----] pockets, and I'll see you in hell before I stand it!"
Another young Englishman came out and joined the first.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Dunno exactly," answered his friend. "Waiter says this chap's trying on a bilk. Chap himself says they've rooked him on his lunch."
"The gentleman would talk French," said the pale waiter, gaining courage. "I don't know French, nor 'e don't neither. I told 'im it was à la carte as soon as 'e pointed to the canteloup."