"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.—
"Six Cent Six!"
everyone cried. Surplice stamped with wrath and mortification. "C'est domage" Monsieur Auguste said gently beside me. "C'est un bon-homme, le pauvre, il ne faut pas l'enmerd-er."
"Look behind you!"
somebody yelled. Surplice wheeled, exactly like a kitten trying to catch its own tail, and provoked thunders of laughter. Nor could anything at once more pitiful and ridiculous, more ludicrous and horrible, be imagined.
"On your coat! Look on your jacket!"
Surplice bent backward, staring over his left, then his right, shoulder, pulled at his jacket first one way then the other—thereby making his improvised tail to wag, which sent The Enormous Room into spasms of merriment—finally caught sight of the incriminating appendage, pulled his coat to the left, seized the paper, tore it off, threw it fiercely down, and stamped madly on the crumpled 606; spluttering and blustering and
