Being spat on is even
less exhilarating than it sounds or looks, and Byng waxed speechless
after passing through a many-worded stage of blasphemy.
Crothers, the larger of the two and by six brawny inches more phlegmatic,
bode his time in silence, so that neither of them spoke a word while
they were hustled and cuffed along the street between the unbaked
brick hovels. It was not until the reinforced iron door of Adra's
one stone building slammed on them that either of them said a word.
Then--
"I'm not a mean man," protested Crothers.
"No?" said Byng, monosyllabic for a start.
"No," repeated Crothers, "I am not, Joe Byng. But--and I says it
solemn; I says it with one 'and above my 'ed, and I'd take my affidavy
on it in a court o' law, if it's the last word I ever does say an'
it's my dying oath--so 'elp me Solomon and all 'is glory; I'm a
Dutchman if I wouldn't like to 'ave a come-back at that Arab."
Byng lay full length on his stomach, and buried his face in his arms.
He was still too full of wrath for words.
"I'd kick his mother, if I couldn't land on him," mused Crothers.
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