He raised his hat and, remarking "Good evening," added that he hoped
she was "having a pleasant time." His tone, I should explain, was
sarcastic.
The young woman, whatever else may be said of her, struck me as
behaving quite correctly. Replying to his salutation with a cold
and distant bow, she rose, and, turning to Mr. Parable, observed
that she thought it was perhaps time for them to be going.
The gentleman, who had taken his pipe from his mouth, said--again in
a sarcastic tone--that he thought so too, and offered the lady his
arm.
"I don't think we need trouble you," said Mr. Parable, and stepped
between them.
To describe what followed I, being a lady, am hampered for words. I
remember seeing Mr. Parable's hat go up into the air, and then the
next moment the florid gentleman's head was lying on my counter
smothered in cigarettes. I naturally screamed for the police, but
the crowd was dead against me; and it was only after what I believe
in technical language would be termed "the fourth round" that they
appeared upon the scene.
The last I saw of Mr. Parable he was shaking a young constable who
had lost his helmet, while three other policemen had hold of him
from behind. The florid gentleman's hat I found on the floor of my
kiosk and returned to him; but after a useless attempt to get it on
his head, he disappeared with it in his hand.
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