It’s very difficult to talk to a man who can’t speak decent English.”
“I—vas—say—ink,” the young Belgian would answer slowly and painfully, his face flushed with embarrassment— “—vas—say—ink—zat—I sink—zat you—ex—ack—sher—ate—”
“That I what?—What? What is he trying to say, anyway?” demanded Hunt, brutally, looking around the table as if hoping to receive interpretation from the other guests. “Oh-h!” he cried suddenly, as if the Belgian’s meaning had just dawned on him. “Exaggerate! That’s the word you’re trying to say!” and he laughed in an ugly manner.
Oswald Ten Eyck had stopped eating and turned white as a sheet. Now he sat there, looking across in an agony of tortured sympathy at the young Belgian, biting his nails nervously, and thrusting his hands through his hair in a distracted manner. The resentment and anger that he had felt at first had now burned to a white-heat of choking, murderous rage. The little man was taken out of himself entirely. Suddenly his sense of personal wrong, the humiliation and pain he had himself endured, was fused with a white-hot anger of resentment for every injustice and wrong that had ever been done to the wounded soul of man. United by that agony to a kind of savage fellowship with the young Belgian, with the insulted and the injured of the earth, of whatsoever class or creed, that burning coal of five feet five flamed in one withering blaze of wrath, and hurled the challenge of its scorn at the oppressor.
The thing happened like a flash. At the close of one of Hunt’s jeering tirades, Ten Eyck jumped from his chair, and leaning half across the table, cried out in a high shrill voice that cut into the silence like a knife:
“Hunt! You are a swine, and everyone who ever had anything to do with you is likewise a swine!” For a moment he paused, breathing hard, clutching his napkin in a bony hand. Slowly his feverish eyes went round the table, and suddenly, seeing the malevolent stare of the old composer Cram fixed upon him, he hurled the wadded napkin down and pointing a trembling finger at that hated face, he screamed: “And that goes for you as well, you old bastard!… It goes for all the rest of you,” he shrieked, gesturing wildly. “Hunt… Cram! Cram!… God!” he cried, shaking with laughter. “There’s a name for you!… It’s perfect…. Yes, you! You swine!” he yelled again, thrusting his finger at Cram’s yellowed face so violently that the composer scrambled back with a startled yelp. “And all the rest of you!” he pointed towards Miss Thrall—“
