The Young Pole with a shriek
of fear climbed the Zulu--receiving just as he had compassed this human
hurdle a crack on the seat of his black pants that stood him directly
upon his head. Pivoting slightly for an instant he fell loosely at full
length on his own _paillasse_, and lay sobbing and roaring, one elbow
protectingly raised, interspersing the inarticulations of woe with a
number of sincerely uttered "_Assez!'s_". Meanwhile The Zulu had
discovered the whereabouts of his treasure, had driftingly resumed his
original position; and was quietly inserting the also-captured cigarette
which appeared somewhat confused by its violent aerial journey. Over The
Young Pole stood toweringly Bill The Hollander, his shirt almost in
ribbons about his thick bulging neck, thundering as only Hollanders
thunder
"Have you got enough you _Gottverdummer_ Polak?"
and The Young Pole, alternating nursing the mutilated pulp where his face
had been and guarding it with futile and helpless and almost infantile
gestures of his quivering hands, was sobbing
"_Oui, Oui, Oui, Assez!_"
And Bill The Hollander hugely turned to The Zulu, stepping accurately to
the _paillasse_ of that individual, and demanded
"And you, you _Gottverdummer_ Polaker, do you want t' fight?"
at which The Zulu gently waved in recognition of the compliment and
delicately and hastily replied, between slow puffs
"_Mog.
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