Further up the path the young Venezuelan was struggling in the arms of his friends. Fearful that he might still be in danger they were restraining him, and he, eager to pursue the man who had fired on him, was crying aloud his protests. Others of his friends were racing down the different paths, breaking through the bushes, and often, in their excitement, seizing upon one another. Huddled together in a group, the waiters and coachmen explained, gesticulated, shrieked.
But above the clamor of all, the voice of Peter was the most insistent. Leaping from a wreck of plates and glasses, his clothing splashed with claret, with coffee, with salad dressing, with the tablecloth wound like a kilt about his legs, he jumped at Roddy and Roddy retreated before him. Raging, and in the name of profane places, Peter demanded what Roddy "meant" by it.
"Look at me!" he commanded. "Look what you did! Look at me!"
Roddy did not look. If he looked he knew he would laugh. And he knew Peter was hoping he would laugh so that, at that crowning insult, he might fall upon him.
In tones of humble, acute regret Roddy protested.
"I did it, Peter," he stammered hastily. "I did it--to save you. I was afraid he would hit you. I had to act quickly----"
"Afraid _he'd_ hit me!" roared Peter. "_You_ hit me! Hit me with a table! Look at my new white flannel suit! And look at this!" With his fingers he gingerly parted his wet, disheveled hair. "Look at the bump on the back of my head. Is _that_ your idea of saving me? I wish," he exploded savagely, "I wish he'd shot you full of holes!"
The violent onslaught of Peter was interrupted by one hardly less violent from the young Venezuelan. He had freed himself from his friends, and, as it now was evident the man who had attempted his life had escaped, and that to search further was useless, he ran to thank the stranger who had served him. Extravagantly, but with real feeling, he wrung both of Roddy's hands. In the native fashion he embraced him, shook him by the shoulders, patted him affectionately on the back. Eloquently but incoherently in Spanish, French and English he poured forth his thanks. He hailed Roddy as his preserver, his _bon amigo_, his _brav camarad_. In expressing their gratitude his friends were equally voluble and generous. They praised, they applauded, they admired; in swift, graceful gestures they reënacted for each other the blow upon the chin, the struggle for the revolver, the escape of the would-be assassin.