"What for you bump me?" demanded the lad, in an angry tone.
"Git out of the way before I hit you!" growled Kalinski.
"What for you run against me?"
"I didn't. You run into me. You're a li——"
Ignatz was a stocky boy, even though he was only seventeen years old. He had been used to heavy work all his life; in fact, he had had little schooling, having had to earn his living since he was ten years old, at which time his father had been killed in the mills, leaving Mrs. Brodsky with a brood of young Brodskys, of whom Ignatz was next to the eldest. It therefore devolved on him to share a good part of the burdens of the home, the elder brother, Paul, having a wife of his own to care for.
When Ignatz let go his fist the other man was caught wholly off his guard. He had no time to raise his own fists in defense, though he was just preparing to administer a kick to the boy who had involved him in an argument.
Kalinski struck the ground sideways. The pit boss was on his feet in a few seconds, uttering a roar of rage. Ignatz calmly knocked him down again, this time the blood spurting from the boss's nose in a tiny crimson stream.
The next time Watski came up there was blood in his eyes, as well as on his face and nose. Ignatz knew full well that, unless he turned and ran, the tables would be quickly turned on him, for on equal ground he was no match for the brawny pit boss.
"You loafer! You——"