So we moved our chairs into position for a better view.

The guard advanced fox-terrierwise to within about six paces of Coutlass.

“Up with both your ‘ands, Thermopylea!” he snapped.  “Your bloomin’ reckonin’s come!”

Coutlass showed tobacco-stained teeth for answer, and his friends rutched their chairs clear of the table, ready for action.  Yet they were taken unawares.  With a terrier’s speed the guard pounced on Coutlass, seized him by the hair and collar, hurled him, chair and all, under a side-table, and was on the far side of the table kicking his prostrate victim in the ribs before either Greek or Goanese—­likewise upset in the sudden onslaught—­could gather themselves and interfere.

The Goanese was first on his feet.  He hurled a soda-water bottle.  The guard ducked and the bottle smashed into splinters on the wall.  Before the sound of smashing glass had died the Goanese was down again, laid out by blows on the nose and jugular.  Then again the guard kicked Coutlass, driving him back under the table from which he was trying to emerge on all fours.

The second Greek looked more dangerous.  His face grew dark with rage as the lips receded from his yellow teeth.  He reached toward his boot, but judged there were too many witnesses for knife work and rushed in suddenly, yelling something in Greek to Coutlass as he picked up a chair to brain the guard with.  He swung the chair, but the guard met it with another one, dodged him, and tripped him as he passed.  In another second it was his turn to be kicked in the ribs until he yelled for mercy. (An extra large dinner and all those assorted drinks in addition to what they had had in the train made neither man’s wind good.)

No mercy was forthcoming.  He was kicked, more and more violently, until the need of crawling through the door to safety dawned on his muddled wits and he made his exit from the room snake fashion.  By that time Coutlass was on his feet, and he too elected to force the issue with a chair.  The guard sprang at the chair as Coutlass raised it, bore it down, and drove his fist hard home into the Greek’s right eye three times running.

“’Ave you ’ad enough?” he demanded, making ready for another assault.  The Goanese had recovered and staggered to his feet to interfere, but Coutlass yielded.

“All right,” he said, “why should I fight a little man?  I surrender to save bloodshed!”

“Put your ’ands out, then!”

Coutlass obeyed, and was handcuffed ignominiously.

“Outside, you!”

A savage kick landed in exactly the place where the Goanese least expected and most resented it.  He flew through the door as if the train had started, and then another kick jolted Coutlass.

“Forward, march!  Left-right-left-right!”

With hands manacled in front and the inexorable bantam guard behind, Coutlass came and stood before the railway official, who at last condescended not to seem engrossed in his accounts.