A terrific tumult interrupted my mirth. “_Par ici!_”—“Get out of the
way you damn Polak!”—“M’sieu, M’sieu!”—“Over here!”—“_Mais
non!_”—“_Gott-ver-dummer!_” I turned in terror to see my _paillasse_ in
the clutches of four men who were apparently rending it in as many
directions.
One was a clean-shaven youngish man with lively eyes, alert and
muscular, whom I identified as the man who had called me “Johnny.” He
had hold of a corner of the mattress and was pulling against the
possessor of the opposite corner: an incoherent personage enveloped in
a buffoonery of amazing rags and patches, with a shabby head on which
excited wisps of dirty hair stood upright in excitement, and the tall,
ludicrous, extraordinary, almost noble figure of a dancing bear. A
third corner of the _paillasse_ was rudely grasped by a six-foot
combination of yellow hair, red hooligan face, and sky-blue trousers;
assisted by the undersized tasseled mucker in Belgian uniform, with a
pimply rogue’s mug and unlimited impertinence of diction, who had
awakened me by demanding if I wanted coffee. Albeit completely dazed by
the uncouth vocal fracas, I realised in some manner that these hostile
forces were contending, not for the possession of the mattress, but
merely for the privilege of presenting the mattress to myself.
Before I could offer any advice on this delicate topic, a childish
voice cried emphatically beside my ear: “Put the mattress here! What
are you trying to do? There’s no use destroy-ing a mat-tress!”—at the
same moment the mattress rushed with cobalt strides in my direction,
propelled by the successful efforts of the Belgian uniform and the
hooligan visage, the clean-shaven man and the incoherent bear still
desperately clutching their respective corners; and upon its arrival
was seized with surprising strength by the owner of the child’s voice—a
fluffy little gnome-shaped man with a sensitive face which had suffered
much—and indignantly deposited beside B.’s bed in a space mysteriously
cleared for its reception. The gnome immediately kneeled upon it and
fell to carefully smoothing certain creases caused by the recent
conflict, exclaiming slowly syllable by syllable: “Mon Dieu. Now,
that’s better, you mustn’t do things like that.” The clean-shaven man
regarded him loftily with folded arms, while the tassel and the
trousers victoriously inquired if I had a cigarette?—and upon receiving
one apiece (also the gnome, and the clean-shaven man, who accepted his
with some dignity) sat down without much ado on B.’s bed—which groaned
ominously in protest—and hungrily fired questions at me. The bear
meanwhile, looking as if nothing had happened, adjusted his ruffled
costume with a satisfied air and (calmly gazing into the distance)
began with singularly delicate fingers to stuff a stunted and ancient
pipe with what appeared to be a mixture of wood and manure.
I was still answering questions, when a gnarled voice suddenly
threatened, over our head: “Broom? You. Everybody. Clean. _Surveillant_
says. Not me, no?”—I started, expecting to see a parrot.
It was the silhouette.
A vulture-like figure stood before me, a demoralised broom clenched in
one claw or fist: it had lean legs cased in shabby trousers, muscular
shoulders covered with a rough shirt open at the neck, knotted arms,
and a coarse insane face crammed beneath the visor of a cap. The face
consisted of a rapid nose, droopy moustache, ferocious watery small
eyes, a pugnacious chin, and sunken cheeks hideously smiling. There was
something in the ensemble at once brutal and ridiculous, vigorous and
pathetic.
Again I had not time to speak; for the hooligan in azure trousers
hurled his butt at the bear’s feet, exclaiming: “There’s another for
you, Polak!”—jumped from the bed, seized the broom, and poured upon the
vulture a torrent of _Gott-ver-dummers_, to which the latter replied
copiously and in kind. Then the red face bent within a few inches of my
own, and for the first time I saw that it had recently been young—“I
say I do your sweep for you” it translated pleasantly. I thanked it;
and the vulture, exclaiming: “Good. Good. Not me. _Surveillant._ Harree
does it for everybody. Hee, hee”—rushed off, followed by Harree and the
tassel. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the tall, ludicrous,
extraordinary, almost proud figure of the bear stoop with quiet
dignity, the musical fingers close with a singular delicacy upon the
moist indescribable eighth-of-an-inch of tobacco.