I talked Portuguese fairly well, and Peter spoke it like a Lourenco Marques bar-keeper, with a lot of Shangaan words to fill up. He started on curacao, which I reckoned was a new drink to him, and presently his tongue ran freely. Several neighbours pricked up their ears, and soon we had a small crowd round our table.
We talked to each other of Maritz and our doings. It didn’t seem to be a popular subject in that cafe. One big blue-black fellow said that Maritz was a dirty swine who would soon be hanged. Peter quickly caught his knife-wrist with one hand and his throat with the other, and demanded an apology. He got it. The Lisbon boulevardiers have not lost any lions.
After that there was a bit of a squash in our corner. Those near to us were very quiet and polite, but the outer fringe made remarks. When Peter said that if Portugal, which he admitted he loved, was going to stick to England she was backing the wrong horse, there was a murmur of disapproval. One decent-looking old fellow, who had the air of a ship’s captain, flushed all over his honest face, and stood up looking straight at Peter. I saw that we had struck an Englishman, and mentioned it to Peter in Dutch.
Peter played his part perfectly. He suddenly shut up, and, with furtive looks around him, began to jabber to me in a low voice. He was the very picture of the old stage conspirator.
The old fellow stood staring at us. “I don’t very well understand this damned lingo,” he said; “but if so be you dirty Dutchmen are sayin’ anything against England, I’ll ask you to repeat it. And if so be as you repeats it I’ll take either of you on and knock the face off him.”
He was a chap after my own heart, but I had to keep the game up. I said in Dutch to Peter that we mustn’t get brawling in a public house. “Remember the big thing,” I said darkly. Peter nodded, and the old fellow, after staring at us for a bit, spat scornfully, and walked out.
“The time is coming when the Englander will sing small,” I observed to the crowd. We stood drinks to one or two, and then swaggered into the street. At the door a hand touched my arm, and, looking down, I saw a little scrap of a man in a fur coat.
“Will the gentlemen walk a step with me and drink a glass of beer?” he said in very stiff Dutch.
“Who the devil are you?” I asked.
“Gott strafe England!” was his answer, and, turning back the lapel of his coat, he showed some kind of ribbon in his buttonhole.