Gamaliel lay on the floor for a minute, then picked himself up and went to laying out the victuals, with no apparent sign of injury. Dawkins’s way with the persecuted race seemed effectual enough. Still the Jew kept stopping and listening, with an eye cocked on the door. As for Pomfrett and myself, who sat placidly thawing the salt from our bones by the fire, he never looked at us, but hurried to and fro, stopping and going on again, like a man in some deadly suspense. There was something weighing on Gamaliel’s mind besides the terror of the masterful Dawkins. He had but a few minutes’ respite. From within came the shouts of seamen adrift in the dark house, demanding the way to the tap-room, and the hurrying of footsteps on the boards; and then did Hooky Gamaliel entrench himself behind the table where we were sitting, the perspiration starting in beads upon his face and fear looking out of his eyes.
“Gentlemen, you’ll not see a man murdered in his own house,” says he, clutching Pomfrett’s shoulder. “You’ll stand by me—gentlemen—an old servant of your good uncle’s, Mr Pomfrett—and I’ll stand by you, for there’s trouble coming, Mr Pomfrett, and I know——”
“Hands off,” says Pomfrett, shaking himself free. “Who’s going to murder you, you fool? You fill your lodgers’ bellies, Gamaliel, that’s what you’ve got to do.”
“Oh, this is a horrible business, a dreadful business,” groaned the Jew, clutching himself with both hands, since he could hold on to no one else. “O Mother of Moses, here they come!”
A tall man, his shock of hair ruffled all over his head, and naked as he was born, came rushing into the room, trailing a blanket behind him, and stopped short, dazzled by the light. The next moment he caught sight of the trembling Jew, and made a short rush in his direction, dropping his blanket. Pomfrett stopped him, his open hand against the creature’s face.
“Easy, now,” says he, gently. “Easy, easy all. I’m commander here. Sit down, and take your rations quiet.”
“I want that man, I want that man,” says the naked one, trying to edge past Pomfrett, with his fierce eyes fastened on the Jew.
“Well, you can’t have him, d’ye see,” returned Captain Pomfrett, in the same tone of quiet persuasion. “Obey orders, now, and sit you down. Rations is what you want.”
The room was filling with a little crowd of wild figures, some in shirt and drawers, some in a kilt with a rug about their shoulders, one or two with a filthy blanket held about their naked body. They came crowding about us, a glare of eyes, a gallery of drawn, hungry faces, a hubbub of oaths and clamourings for the blood of Hooky Gamaliel. I suppose, if we had not fenced him in the chimney-corner, the Jew would have been put on the fire straightway. Pomfrett faced the mob with his hands in his pockets, composedly expostulating with the hungry, furious wretches until they quieted down and suddenly turned upon the victuals. They fell upon the meat and drink like a pack of hounds, tearing the meat with teeth and fingers, cramming fowl and beef and bread and tongue all at once, knocking the necks from bottles, pouring down wine and brandy from quart pots.
In the comparative silence that ensued there came the sounds of battering upon a door somewhere upstairs. The Jew, hearkening with an agonised countenance, again took Pomfrett by the sleeve. “Take him away, Mr Pomfrett, take the bloody scoundrel away from that door; don’t let him get in, or there’ll be worsh than murder in a minute. O, this is worsh than all!” In his agitation his accents suddenly thickened to the Hebrew pronunciation.