Jones wasn’t much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at Joe Hennessy’s, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger.
He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, right under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella—and then—swift as light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of the jaw.
The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under them, then, shouting for help—that was the humorous and pitiable part of it—scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again.
Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally injured.
The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds.
You can fancy the scene.
Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the display—and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds to see worse—were moving away together through the throng, the floored one with arms still out, was murmuring: “Brandee—brandee,” into the ear of a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones’ side.
Jones took him apart a few steps.
“I am the Earl of Rochester,” said he, in a half whisper. “That guy has got what he wanted—never mind what he was doing—kick the beast awake and ask him if he wants to prosecute.”
The constable came and stood over the head end of the sufferer, who was now leaning on one arm.