Some of the dealers hurried to the call of the usher and surrounded Schleifmann, questioning him. Their intervention completed the Galicia exasperation. He had a sudden vision of the recent scene, a jostling mob, fists shaken, ugly faces. All that might be coming again! His voice became threatening.
“What are you butting into this for?... We are not at the Bourse here! Leave me alone; the first man who lays a hand on me I will kick in the stomach!”
“What! You, Schleifmann!” said Pums, who opened his door when he heard the fracas. “Is it you, talking about kicking people in the stomach?”
The Galician took off his hat and said in lower tones:
“Yes, ... it was I, M. Pums.... They wanted to prevent me from seeing you.... And it is an urgent matter. As I was telling that ill-bred usher, it is a matter of a ma life!”
“But, at the present moment ...” the assistant director protested.
“When a ma life is at stake, there is no such thing as a moment, M. Pums! Believe me.... Let me speak with you. Some day, you will thank me for this!”
“All right!” said Pums, darting a sly wink of apology and connivance at the agents.
Schleifmann followed him in and closed the door behind him.
Pums sat at his desk of purple ebony; Schleifmann opposite him, his back to the door. He laid his hat on the table.