"Tell that Greek—Coutlass his name is—to come here."
With his tongue stuck into his cheek and a wink at us the guard obeyed.
"He says for you to go to 'ell, sir!" he reported after a moment's interview.
"Very well. Arrest him!"
"He'll need help," I interrupted. "My two friends and I—"
"Oh, dear no," said the official. "He is fully up to his work."
So we moved our chairs into position for a better view.
The guard advanced fox-terrierwise to within about six paces of
Coutlass.
"Up with both your 'ands, Thermopylea!" he snapped. "Your bloomin' reckonin's come!"
Coutlass showed tobacco-stained teeth for answer, and his friends rutched their chairs clear of the table, ready for action. Yet they were taken unawares. With a terrier's speed the guard pounced on Coutlass, seized him by the hair and collar, hurled him, chair and all, under a side-table, and was on the far side of the table kicking his prostrate victim in the ribs before either Greek or Goanese—likewise upset in the sudden onslaught—could gather themselves and interfere.