Anthony cracked up against the staircase,
recovered himself and made a wild drunken swing at his opponent, but
Bloeckman, who took exercise every day and knew something of sparring,
blocked it with ease and struck him twice in the face with two swift
smashing jabs. Anthony gave a little grunt and toppled over onto the
green plush carpet, finding, as he fell, that his mouth was full of
blood and seemed oddly loose in front. He struggled to his feet, panting
and spitting, and then as he started toward Bloeckman, who stood a few
feet away, his fists clenched but not up, two waiters who had appeared
from nowhere seized his arms and held him, helpless. In back of them a
dozen people had miraculously gathered.
"I'll kill him," cried Anthony, pitching and straining from side to
side. "Let me kill----"
"Throw him out!" ordered Bloeckman excitedly, just as a small man with a
pockmarked face pushed his way hurriedly through the spectators.
"Any trouble, Mr. Black?"
"This bum tried to blackmail me!" said Bloeckman, and then, his voice
rising to a faintly shrill note of pride: "He got what was coming
to him!"
The little man turned to a waiter.
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