The attacher, having accomplished his difficult feat,
crept away. So soon as he reached his _paillasse_ a volley of shouts went
up from all directions, shouts in which all nationalities joined, shouts
or rather jeers which made the pillars tremble and the windows rattle--
"_SIX CENT SIX! SYPH'LIS!_"
Surplice started from his reverie, removed his pipe from his lips, drew
himself up proudly, and--facing one after another the sides of The
Enormous Room--blustered in his bad and rapid French accent:
"_Pas syph'lis! Pas syph'lis!_"
at which, rocking with mirth, everyone responded at the top of his voice:
"_SIX CENT SIX!_"
Whereat, enraged, Surplice made a dash at Pete The Shadow and was greeted
by
"Get away, you bloody Polak, or I'll give you something you'll be sorry
for"--this from the lips of America Lakes. Cowed, but as majestic as
ever, Surplice attempted to resume his promenade and his composure
together. The din bulged:
"_Six cent six! Syph'lis! Six cent Six!_"
--increasing in volume with every instant. Surplice, beside himself with
rage, rushed another of his fellow-captives (a little old man, who fled
under the table) and elicited threats of:
"Come on now, you Polak hoor, and quit that business or I'll kill you,"
upon which he dug his hands into the pockets of his almost transparent
pantaloons and marched away in a fury, literally frothing at the mouth.
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