“You’re a lot of crawling, sneaking, penny-chasing rabbits,” he said, distinctly. “Brag and blow—that’s you.... And then somebody kills your wives and babies and you haven’t the guts to kill back again. You’re afraid, the lot of you. You won’t fight. If anybody says war you crawl under the table.... Americans!... I’d rather be an Esquimo.... If anybody slapped your faces you wouldn’t fight.... I’ll show you. I’ll show you what kind of cattle you are.... Now, if there’s a fight in you, come and fight....”
He lunged forward and struck a man, upsetting him against a table. The place was in an uproar. “It’s young Waite—look out. He’s a bad actor.... Call the cops.” Potter swayed forward into the throng at the bar, striking, striking. In a moment he was the center of a maelstrom of shouting, scuffling men—and his laugh rang above their shouts. They struck at him, clutched at him; waiters and bartenders tried to force their way to him. He was pushed back and back, still keeping his feet, still lashing out with his fists, his eyes blazing, his yellow hair rumpled and waving, his reckless laugh dominating the turmoil. His back was against the wall. Before him now was a clear semicircle which none ventured to cross, and he laughed in their faces.
“Fifty to one,” he jeered, “and you’re afraid.”
A couple of policemen shouldered their way through, recognized Potter, and stopped. “Cut it out now, Waite,” said one of them. “Cut it out and come on.”
Potter’s answer was to step forward and strike the officer with all his strength. The other officer did not parley. His night stick was out. He raised it, brought it down on Potter’s yellow hair, and the whole room heard the thud of it.... Potter stood erect the fraction of a second, then the stiffness went out of his body and he sank to the floor a shapeless heap....
The morning papers printed Potter’s picture and news stories of this his most reckless escapade. They also printed moral editorials which, with singular unanimity, pointed out facts concerning young men with too much money, no regard for their citizenship, and mentioned disgracing an honorable name.
CHAPTER III
When the heir to a hundred millions of dollars is arrested in this country for any act less than murder, he does not expect to sleep in a cell. The police do not expect him to sleep in a cell, and the public would be astonished—and a little vexed—if he were compelled to do so. They would be vexed because in the event of his detention, they would be deprived of the pleasure of railing against our institutions and of saying to their neighbors in the street-car that, “a man with enough money can get away with anything.”
“Couldn’t you bring in a kid without usin’ the wood?” the lieutenant at the desk said to the officer who had floored Potter. It did not seem fitting to that lieutenant that a hundred millions of dollars should have its scalp abraided by a night stick.
“Kid, hell!” said the officer. “If you’d ’a’ seen the wallop he handed Tom!”