I was calm enough. But he was too calm by half. He didn’t answer, but he had given up smiling. He was looking sideways down at my hand on his shoulder. I’ve never had a pretty hand, but it has been quite useful to me one way and another and I’ve grown attached to it. I can’t attempt to describe the disgust and contempt in that boy’s look. It sort of said: “By the bosom of Abraham, what _is_ that filthy thing on my shoulder?” I said sharply: “I’m waiting.” The girl sighed: “Don’t! Don’t, Julian!” As though, you know, he might hit me! Me! Well, he might! I said: “Careful, young man!” The girl whispered almost frantically: “Let him go, sir! Please! You don’t know....” I comforted her. I said I could take care of myself. She wasn’t, I fancy, convinced. The way she looked at a man, with those scared black eyes! But our young friend wasn’t taking any notice of either of us. He was busy. All this, of course, happened in a few seconds. The Jew had raised his hand, slowly, very slowly, and had caught the wrist of my hand on his shoulder. I felt his fingers round my wrist. Tight. “Steady, boy!” I said. I’d have to hit him, and I didn’t want to do that. At least, I told myself I didn’t want to. That young Jew had strong fingers. He simply hadn’t spoken one word yet. His conversation was limited to trying to break my wrist. _My_ wrist! Then he spoke. He said: “You swine!” The girl suddenly pulled at my arm, hard. His back was to the open doorway, the rain, the gutter. I caught him one on the chin so that he was in it flat on his back. His tie looked fancier than ever in the mud, too. The girl sort of screamed. “All right,” I said. “All right.” Trying, you know, to comfort the poor kid. She was rushing after her man, but I had my arm like a bar across the door. She stared at me. I said: “Listen to me, my child. You’re in bad company.” “She is now,” a voice said. The young Jew had picked himself up. He looked a mess, fine clothes and all. I thought he would try to rush me, but not he! He just smiled and said quite calmly: “I’ll make a note of that, Sir Charles Fasset-Faith. Come on, Manana.” But I wasn’t letting “Manana” go just yet. The poor kid. “What’s his name?” I asked her. She stared at me. I never knew what “white” really meant until I saw that child’s teeth. “His name?” I repeated. Gently, you know. She whispered: “Julian Raphael.” That young Jew’s voice hit me on the back of the neck like a knife. “You’ll pay for that, Manana! See if you don’t!” By the way, it isn’t just rhetoric about the knife. It was like a knife. But I’ll tell you more about knives later. “Oh,” she sobbed. “Look here,” I said to the devilish boy, “if you so much as----” He laughed. The girl bolted under my arm and joined him. He just laughed. I said: “Good-night, Manana. Don’t let him hurt you.” She didn’t seem to dare look at me.