The Cuban, in his clear, tense tones,
spoke one word. It was the bitter insult. It seemed fairly to spin from
his lips and crackle in the air like breaking glass.
Every man save the little Cuban made an electric movement. Patsy roared
a black oath and thrust himself forward until he towered almost directly
above the other man. His fists were doubled into knots of bone and hard
flesh. The Cuban had raised a steady finger.
"If you touch me wis your hand, I will keel you."
The two well-dressed men had come swiftly, uttering protesting cries.
They suddenly intervened in this second of time in which Patsy had
sprung forward and the Cuban had uttered his threat. The four men were
now a tossing, arguing; violent group, one well-dressed man lecturing
the Cuban, and the other holding off Patsy, who was now wild with rage,
loudly repeating the Cuban's threat, and maneuvering and struggling to
get at him for revenge's sake.
The bartender, feverishly scouring away with his towel, and at times
pacing to and fro with nervous and excited tread, shouted out--
"Say, for heaven's sake, don't fight in here. If yeh wanta fight, go out
in the street and fight all yeh please. But don't fight in here."
Patsy knew one only thing, and this he kept repeating:
"Well, he wants t' scrap! I didn't begin dis! He wants t' scrap."
The well-dressed man confronting him continually replied--
"Oh, well, now, look here, he's only a lad.
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