"Put down your foot, man!"
"Quintod!" Paul said, as if using rare syllables of opprobrium: "Quidhetch! Vassenoy!" He moved his foot this way and that, eying it. Even the Englishwoman was staring at it now, in some shock. After all, it was on her table, twenty inches from her picklelike nose, and not a victual.
Paul turned again to the standing man and hissed, "Kittenpitches!"
"Waiter!"
Fred was still standing there—still fairly impassive. He had the wit to say, "Yes, sir?"
"This person is drunk!"
Paul came to his feet then—and towered over the Englishman. He bent close. "Pomadiant nocrot," he said harshly. "Cantapunce. Cabulate geepross. Dreek!"
The Englishman opened his mouth and emitted a thin, high, frightened squeak.
Paul scowled. "Nikerpole," he said, sadly now. "Oose."
Quite suddenly, Paul sat down. He spoke to Marcia in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone—but a tone loud enough to carry around the respectfully quieted room. "Never did understand why people came here without first learning the language. And the manners. I dare say my Japanese surprised him! Probably an admiral in civies, spying out the next war. Got a camera in his mustache, I presume, clever devils!"