"Hurrah! Garrison! Butt the cook in the stomach!"
This wild joy on the part of others made me feel that I wanted to throw myself upon them and hit their dirty heads with a lump of wood.
Smouri let the soldier go, and with his hands behind his back turned upon the passengers like a wild boar, bristling, and showing his teeth terrifyingly.
"To your places! March! March!"
The soldier threw himself upon me again, but Smouri seized him round the body with one hand and carried him to the hatchway, where he began to pump water on his head, turning his frail body about as if he were a rag-doll.
The sailors came running on the scene, with the boatswain and the captain's mate. The passengers crowded about again. A head above the others stood the head-steward, quiet, dumb, as always.
The soldier, sitting on some wood near the kitchen door, took off his boots and began to wring out his leggings, though they were not wet. But the water dripped from his greasy hair, which again amused the passengers.
"All the same," said the soldier, "I am going to kill that boy."
Taking me by the shoulder, Smouri said something to the captain's mate. The sailors sent the passengers away, and when they had all dispersed, he asked the soldier:
"What is to be done with you?"