Teuns Stegmann looks with burning eyes at the little Arab with the small goatee, and then his two strong hands shoot out. He grabs the creature by the neck of his cloak and pulls him closer.
“My brother… what news do you have about my brother?” the South African croaks, shaking the little man as if he is a piece of pea shell. “Speak!” he says, in near fury.
“You cannot expect him to talk if you are nearly strangling him,” Jack Ritchie suggests.
In the meantime, Fritz Mundt had also risen, but slow and purposefully, as if he wanted to have his reckoning with this little Arab if Teuns did not act fast enough to his liking.
Teuns lets go of the Arab. The man stands there in a slack pose, his mouth hanging open and with white specks of sweat on his face.
Teuns narrows his eyes, calculati
