In addition to our privilege of paying more for exactly the same food, we enjoyed exclusiveness, a dirty table-cloth, and the extra smell from the kitchen door.

(The table-cloth was dirty because the barefoot Goanese waiters invariably stubbed their feet against a break in the floor and spilt soup exactly in the same place.) We had scarcely taken our seats when Coutlass swaggered in, closely followed by his gang.

Inside the door he turned on Hassan.
"Black men eat outside!" he snarled, and shoved him out again backward.
Then he came over to us and stood leering at the framed sign, "First Class Only," avoiding our eyes, but plainly at war with us.
"Gassharamminy!" he growled.

"You think you're popes or something! You three would want a special private piece of earth to spit on!" He raised his voice to a sort of scream.

"I proclaim one class only!" At that he lifted his foot about level with his chest and kicked the screen over.