She shrieked again. "Ma Gud, she's a dyin' woman!" said Scotty.
She was not. She had found her passport. The business of waiting was resumed by the rest of us.
The little cafés along the water-front were closing; loads of soldiers and sailors began to flow out on to the jetty. One began to sing, and another; others to whirl along in grotesque dance steps. Two began to talk loudly. They came to blows. A third one stepped in to stop it, whereupon one of the first two turned on him to inquire what he was interfering for.
"But he's a friend o' mine," explained the third man.
"Is he a better friend o' yours than o' me? Answer me that. Is he? Do you know him longer than I know him? No? Then mind your own and do not be interferin'." The third man felt properly rebuked. He withdrew his objections and the other two resumed their fight.
We were inside the shed at last; and by and by I came before a man in a little office inside the shed. He was a Frenchman, but spoke good English.
"Your passport, please."
I produced it. He took a look and passed it back.
"Any gold on your person?"
"Thirty dollars—American."