"Oot o' the way, ye dirt! Drap yon deevil wi' the knife!"
Macallister, still singing, swung the leg of the chair and a man went down upon the stones, the knife he held flying from his hand. There was a thud as the captain's champagne bottle descended on somebody's head; and Watson sprang forward, whirling the broken casting. The crowd gave back before his rush and then scattered as Grahame and Walthew appeared in the gap. The fugitives stopped; and during the moment's breathing space Grahame noticed that a smashed guitar, adorned with gaudy ribbons, hung round Macallister's neck.
"It was yon fool thing made the trouble," Watson explained. "He racked her till she buckled, but she would not keep the tune, and we had to pit her owner below the table. Then an officer wi' a sword would interfere and when he got a bit tap wi' a bottle we were mobbed by the roomful o' swine."
He paused as somebody threw a stone at him, and then addressed the crowd in warning:
"We'll no' be responsible for what may happen til ye if we lose our tempers!"
The mob had been closing in again, but it fell back when two white-uniformed rural guards with pistols drawn pushed through. Grahame spoke to them in Castilian, and they stopped. While they asked him questions, another man, whom they saluted with respect, joined them.
"It is not permitted to make a disturbance in this city," the official said to Grahame. "We will inquire into the matter to-morrow. You will go on board your vessel now."
"I'm no' going," Watson declared when Grahame translated the order. "Took a room at Hotel Sevillana, and I want to see the dago who would pit me oot."
"Better humor him," advised the captain. "Obstinate beast when he gets a notion into his head. If he's not on board in the morning, I'll send a boatful of deckhands for him."
Grahame explained that the engineer wished to spend the night ashore, and the official looked thoughtful.