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Into this virulent digestive stew could be stirred Holdout’s habit of emphasising his aitches when he spoke, always leaning his huge bulk as close to his listener as possible. He therefore drove those on the receiving end of his tirades to conclude that it was in their best interests to agree with whatever he said and make an escape for some breathable air.

What Holdout Harumpa was doing in Jake Karoo’s caravan - that served as the circus owner’s office-cum-living quarters - at that late hour, was collecting his share of the evening’s meagre takings. Only on behalf of the Heimraden, of course.

“The way I see it, Mister Karoo,” he wheezed, “we are partners in this enterprise. You are entertainers. Artistes. You require someone like me to help smooth the bumps in the road. Deal with our colonial masters. So. As I said: partners. I think that I deserve my fair share of our little enterprise, don’t you? One hand washes the other, no?”

Jake Karoo, looking more morose than normal, didn’t say a word. The thought flashed through his mind, like a meteor on a summer’s night, that Holdout had probably last washed his hands when he was seven. He just nodded. He was in Holdout’s territory and he knew it.

The fact that Holdout was a drossaard - a position somewhat like a district commissioner - and could grant or withhold from the circus any rights he chose to, was by the by. Quarto-Invary, Bugrawlia’s colonial master, had in recent years been relegated to a powerless observer in these lawless parts, incapable of subjugating these wild mountain peoples.

But Holdout Harumpa was the kind of man who needed to justify his venality, if only to himself.

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