And upon this, without other warning, he let fly with the banana which missed my head, and took the constable just under the left eye.  He rushed at the miserable Johnson, stammering with fury.  They fell. . . .  But why dwell on the wretchedness, the breathlessness, the degradation, the senselessness, the weariness, the ridicule and humiliation and—­and—­the perspiration, of these moments?  I dragged the ex-hussar off.  He was like a wild beast.  It seems he had been greatly annoyed at losing his free afternoon on my account.  The garden of his bungalow required his personal attention, and at the slight blow of the banana the brute in him had broken loose.  We left Johnson on his back, still black in the face, but beginning to kick feebly.  Meantime, the big woman had remained sitting on the ground, apparently paralysed with extreme terror.

For half an hour we jolted inside our rolling box, side by side, in profound silence.  The ex-sergeant was busy staunching the blood of a long scratch on his cheek.  “I hope you’re satisfied,” he said suddenly.  “That’s what comes of all that tomfool business.  If you hadn’t quarrelled with that tugboat skipper over some girl or other, all this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You heard that story?” I said.

“Of course I heard.  And I shouldn’t wonder if the Consul-General himself doesn’t come to hear of it.  How am I to go before him to-morrow with that thing on my cheek—­I want to know.  Its you who ought to have got this!”

After that, till the gharry stopped and he jumped out without leave-taking, he swore to himself steadily, horribly; muttering great, purposeful, trooper oaths, to which the worst a sailor can do is like the prattle of a child.  For my part I had just the strength to crawl into Schomberg’s coffee-room, where I wrote at a little table a note to the mate instructing him to get everything ready for dropping down the river next day.  I couldn’t face my ship.  Well! she had a clever sort of skipper and no mistake—­poor thing!  What a horrid mess!  I took my head between my hands.  At times the obviousness of my innocence would reduce me to despair.  What had I done?  If I had done something to bring about the situation I should at least have learned not to do it again.  But I felt guiltless to the point of imbecility.  The room was empty yet; only Schomberg prowled round me goggle-eyed and with a sort of awed respectful curiosity.  No doubt he had set the story going himself; but he was a good-hearted chap, and I am really persuaded he participated in all my troubles.  He did what he could for me.  He ranged aside the heavy match-stand, set a chair straight, pushed a spittoon slightly with his foot—­as you show small attentions to a friend under a great sorrow—­sighed, and at last, unable to hold his tongue: 

“Well!  I warned you, captain.  That’s what comes of running your head against Mr. Falk.  Man’ll stick at nothing.”