It opened to his imperious hand, and he found himself in a dark little
shrubbery behind an arbour that looked out to the sea. It was in this
arbour that the scuffle was taking place, and in a second he had forced
his way through the intervening shrubs and was at the entrance.

"Damnation!" he burst forth again furiously. "What are you doing? Leave
that boy alone!"

A man in evening-dress was gripping a fair-haired lad, who wore the
hotel-livery, by the back of his neck and raining merciless blows upon
his uncovered head. He turned, sharply straightening himself, at
Saltash's tempestuous entrance, and revealed to the newcomer the
deeply-suffused countenance of the hotel-manager.

Their recognition was mutual. He flung the boy into a corner and faced
his patron, breathing hard, his black eyes still fiercely gleaming.

"Ah! It is milord!" he said, in jerky English, and bowed punctiliously
though he was still shaking with rage. "What can I do for you, milord?"

"What the devil is the matter?" said Saltash, sweeping aside all
ceremony. "What are you hammering that unfortunate boy for? Can't you
find a man your own size to hammer?"

The Italian flung a fierce glance over his shoulder at his crouching
victim. "He is worthless!" he declared. "I give him a trial--_bueno_, but
he is worthless. Milord will pardon me, he is--English. And the English
are--no good for work--no good at all."