And, swift as lightning, she thrust out her arms and caught him by the shoulders. For a few seconds her massive frame towered above him and she shook him violently. The waiter renewed his high falsetto giggling. Then, placing one foot behind her, she lunged her body forward, and her muscular arms shot out like two piston-rods. Twelves fell backwards, his head striking a heavy chair four paces behind him. As he did not move, I rushed forward to his help, but, as I rushed, the waiters ran also, and we arrived at Twelves’ prone body at the same moment.
Twelves, though badly injured, was perfectly conscious.
“Take me out,” he said, “I feel bloody sick.”
And that is all that happened.
At the beginning of this story I called it a tragedy, but perhaps you think that “comedy” describes it better. Well, on the whole, so do I.
I only hope Twelves does too.
PAUL OF TARSUS
To
Julius Harrison