It was not long, however, before he was hastily approached by a man, and that man no less a person than the same flashily attired individual who had taken the young woman, Madge, away from the hotel, at Atlantic City!
"Hello! get out of this, you loafer!" he cried seizing Fritz by the shoulder, roughly. "How many times do you have to be told to go? The guv'nor said go—now, if you don't light out, I'll make your heels break your neck."
"Vil you, dough!" Fritz grinned, wrenching loose, and standing on the defensive. "Yoost you keep your hands off vrom me, Griffith Gregg, or I vil knock der whole top off your nose off."
"What! you vagabond! you compare me with the smuggler's son? I'll thump your skull for that piece of impudence."
And he was as good as his word, for, raising a stout cane he carried, he brought it heavily down upon the young detective's head.
For a moment Fritz was nearly stunned, but he quickly recovered, and sprung at his assailant, pluckily.
"Oh! you snoozer!" he cried, "I vil plack your eye mit plue, for dot."
And he did deal the honorable's son two severe whacks between the eyes, in rapid succession, which had the effect to land him on his back on the ground.
"Thump me on der head, vil you?" Fritz cried, standing over him, ready to give him another rap, if he attempted to rise. "I'll pet you a half-dollar you vil got left, on dot."
"Let me up, you dastardly loafer!" young Greyville raved, not daring to rise under the existing circumstances. "I'll murder you, for this, I—I'll—"