But after the first shock he curled his thick upper lip slightly and licked it with the tip of his tongue. The movement of his mouth had the appearance of a grin. The girl who happened to glance at him just then, found his gaze centred on her. She dropped the fish slice into the pan with some sort of an exclamation in a foreign language. But Gypo, though he was looking at her, did not see her. He was busy with his clumsy thick fingers, separating a single note from the roll without taking the roll from his pocket. At last he succeeded in doing so. He grunted and pulled out a single Treasury note. He held it up. “Here ye are,” he cried. “This’ll pay for the lot. Hand out the grub.” The Italian smiled immediately and began to serve the packages into the eager hands that reached out for them. He counted out loud as he did so: “One, two, three, four . . .” An uproar commenced immediately. People crowded in from the door struggling to get served. Those who had been served struggled to get out into the street, with their food in steaming, dripping, paper packages in their hands. Altercations arose. The shop was full of sound. There were catcalls, whistling, cursing and laughing. Then a big docker brought the uproar to a climax by smashing his big boot through the wooden bottom of the counter, uttering a drunken yell as he did so. Then he sprawled over the counter, laughing foolishly and reaching out with his two hands towards the girl who shrank away terrified. The Italian uttered an exclamation of terror. Gypo turned towards the docker, lifted him up by the back and shouted: “Keep quiet.” The two words re-echoed through the shop, like two rocks rolled down from opposite precipices and meeting in a glen, with two separate sounds, a heavy thick sound as they collide, a loud rasping sound as their splintered fragments fly clashing into the air. The words had scarcely passed out the door into the night before a silence fell. Everybody stood still. One man stopped in the act of sucking a fish-bone between his lips. “Now carry on,” continued Gypo, “but don’t kick up a row like a lot o’ cannibals. Don’t disgrace yer country. A man ud think ye didn’t see a bite for a year.” Then he himself turned towards the counter and asked the Italian how many meals had been served. Twenty-four meals had been served. He threw the pound note on the counter. “Take out o’ that for three rounds for mesel’,” he said. Then he pushed back his hat, drew a paper full of food towards him and began to eat. Without speaking, the Italian held the Treasury note between him and the electric light and peered at each side of it several times. Then he nodded his head and opened his till.