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Scaramouche took the hand, clutched it, heaved himself from the
ground, then with a scream dropped back again.
"My foot!" he complained.
Binet rolled through the group of players, scattering them to right
and left. Apprehension had been quick to seize him. Fate had
played him such tricks before.
"What ails your foot?" quoth he, sourly.
"It's broken, I think," Scaramouche complained.
"Broken? Bah! Get up, man." He caught him under the armpits and
hauled him up.
Scaramouche came howling to one foot; the other doubled under him
when he attempted to set it down, and he must have collapsed again
but that Binet supported him. He filled the place with his plaint,
whilst Binet swore amazingly and variedly.
"Must you bellow like a calf, you fool? Be quiet. A chair here,
some one."
A chair was thrust forward. He crushed Scaramouche down into it.
"Let us look at this foot of yours."
Heedless of Scaramouche's howls of pain, he swept away shoe and
stocking.
"What ails it?" he asked, staring.


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