“You fool!” he said to Westerham, shortly, “this is enough to bring the whole crowd about your ears.”
Westerham laughed. He had known what in Western parlance is called a “rough house” before, and was prepared for all emergencies. As usual, too, when he found himself in an emergency, he was cool and smiling to the point of insolence.
“You forget,” he said to Melun, “that there is a window in this room, and beyond the window is the street. You forget, too, that one good man is worth all that crowd you seem so much afraid of. I am going to take these girls away.”
The drunken sailor, who had by this time half-recovered his senses, sat on the floor, blinking at Westerham and cursing steadily.
Melun took one quick look at Westerham's unpleasantly bright and steady gaze, and again shrugged his shoulders. But this time the shrug indicated assent.
“Very well,” he said.
Westerham again turned to the negro. “Drop that knife,” he ordered.
“Not me!” said the negro.
“Drop it!” said Westerham again.
And the man dropped it.