Pobloff again was glad.
He remained on the rear platform of his car as long as the white
station, beginning to blister under a tropical sun, was in sight. Then
he sought his compartment. His amazement and rage were great when he
found the two window seats occupied by the negro and the mysterious
creature. Pobloff's bag was tumbled in a corner, his overcoat, hat, and
umbrella tossed to the other end of the room. The big black man bared
his teeth smilingly, the shrouded girl shrank back as if in fear.
"Well, I'll be--!" began the composer. Then he leaned over and pushed
the button, the veins in his forehead like whipcords, his throat parched
with wrath. But to no avail--the bell was broken. Pobloff's first
impulse was to take the smiling Ethiopian by the neck and pitch him out.
There were several reasons why he did not: the giant looked dangerous;
he plainly carried a brace of pistols, and at least one dagger, the
jewelled handle of which flashed over his glaring sash of many tints.
And then the lady--Pobloff was very gallant, too gallant, his wife said.
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