“Don't you let him get me, will you, Mister Schouler?” gasped Maria.
“I'll break him in two,” shouted Marcus, livid with rage. “Think I'm afraid of his knife?”
“I know where you are,” cried Zerkow, on the landing outside. “You're in Schouler's room. What are you doing in Schouler's room at this time of night? Come outa there; you oughta be ashamed. I'll do for you yet, my girl. Come outa there once, an' see if I don't.”
“I'll do for you myself, you dirty Jew,” shouted Marcus, unbolting the door and running out into the hall.
“I want my wife,” exclaimed the Jew, backing down the stairs. “What's she mean by running away from me and going into your room?”
“Look out, he's got a knife!” cried Maria through the crack of the door.
“Ah, there you are. Come outa that, and come back home,” exclaimed Zerkow.
“Get outa here yourself,” cried Marcus, advancing on him angrily. “Get outa here.”
“Maria's gota come too.”
“Get outa here,” vociferated Marcus, “an' put up that knife. I see it; you needn't try an' hide it behind your leg. Give it to me, anyhow,” he shouted suddenly, and before Zerkow was aware, Marcus had wrenched it away. “Now, get outa here.”