"Fower, matey. Us fower Henglishmen agin' 'im an' 'is 'ole bleedin' gang," put in 'Erb. "’E's a bloke as wants takin' dahn a peg…. Too free wiv' hisself…. Chucks 'is weight abaht too much…. An' I'll tell yer wot, Cocky. Keep a heye on that cove as you giv' a smack in the chops."
"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco, and turned to the Belgian who stood ruefully holding his face and looking as venomous as a broken-backed cobra, added: "Yew look at hyar, Mounseer Malvin, my lad. Don't yew git handlin' yure Rosalie[1] any dark night. Yew try ter zigouiller[2] my pal Rupert, an' I'll draw yure innards up through yure mouth till yew look like half a pound of dumplin' on the end of half a yard of macaroni. Twiggez vous? Je tirerai vos gueutes à travers votre bouche jusqu'à vous resemblez un demi-livre de ponding au bout d'un demi-yard de macaroni…. Got it? …"
Rivoli twitched, stirred, and groaned. It was interesting to note that none of his clients and henchmen offered any assistance. The sceptre of the great man swayed in his hand. Were he beaten, those whom he ruled by fear, rather than by bribery, would fall upon him like a pack of wolves. The hands of Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat twitched and he licked his lips.
"Je m'en souviendrai," he murmured.
Rivoli sat up.
"Donna e Madonna!" he said. "Corpo di Bacco!" and gazed around. "What has happened?…" and then he remembered. "A minute," he said. "Wait but a minute—and then bring him to me."
Obedience and acquiescence awoke in the bosoms
