When Master Tweeler secured his tarts, Sir Griffin blessed the meal with a hearty “damn!”
He did not care for Master Tweeler’s nightly stomach aches, but their rooms adjoined. When “Ur—r—ving” reached unmolested for his fourth, Sir Griffin rose violently, and muttering, “Change me room, begad!” waddled down to the door, glaring aggressively at the occupants of the various tables. Near the exit a half suppressed squeal caused him to swing round. He had stepped squarely on the toe of a meager individual, who now sat nursing his foot in bitter dejection.
“Pardon—” began Sir Griffin, then stopped and glared at the sallow-faced person.
Sir Griffin stared hard at the man he had stepped on, and at his female companion.
“Damn it!” he cried. “Keep your feet out of the way, do you hear?” puffed his cheeks, squared his shoulders and snorted himself out of the café.
The yellow-faced man was livid with rage.
“Don’t be a fool, Mannie,” whispered the woman; “don’t make a row—do you know who that is?”
“He’s an English hog,” spluttered the man with an oath; “he’s a cursed hog of an Englishman!”
“Yes, and he knows us. He was at Monaco a few summers ago. Don’t forget who turned us out of the Casino.”
Emanuel Pick turned a shade more sallow and sank back in his seat.