"Lockhart had already been in collision a number of times with the Russian interpreter, a small fiery individual who seemed to regard every request for stores or facilities as yet another example of the top-hatted capitalists milking the simple proletariat. On their last morning, an hour before sailing, there developed between them a row so furious and so all-embracing that it was difficult to remember that it had started with a complaint about the quality of the fresh meat supplied to Saltash for her return journey. When it had ranged widely, from a comparison of the Russian and the British standards of living, to an analysis of their respective war efforts, and fists had been shaken on both sides-for Lockhart found this habit of emphasis infectious—the interpreter took a stormy departure. At the head of the gang-way he turned, for a final blistering farewell."You English," he said, in thunderous accents and with extraordinary venom, "think we know damn nothing—but I tell you we know damn all.""