“Your name’s Rosinburg, huh?” he asked. “I just wanna be sure.”
“That’s right,” Rosenberg answered, scenting trouble and wondering what turn it would take.
“Well, you keep away from my sister, get me? You’ve been fillin’ her head with garbage and turnin’ her against her own people, you have, and I’m gonna put a stop to it. You’re a Jew-kike besides, an’ you better stick to your own kind and leave our girls alone, see? ’F you know what’s good for you, you’ll trot along, now.”
Caution and wrath contended within Rosenberg. This man was a professional fighter and gangster, and could probably beat him easily in spite of the difference in their heights, but, by God, he wouldn’t stand for that kind of insulting interference.
“You bet I’m a Jew, and I’m proud of it,” he replied. “What gives you the idea that you can order me around? If Blanche wants to be with me, that’s her business and not yours.”
“Well, I’m gonna make it my business,” Harry retorted, doubling his fists and stepping closer to Rosenberg.
Blanche, who had been stunned and then inarticulately angry at first, glared at Harry—of all the nerve, insulting her escort and handing out commands to her.
“Are you out of your mind, Harry?” she asked. “What do you mean by butting in like this? I’m not a baby and I’ll do exactly as I please, and you might as well get that into your dumb head!”
Harry still ignored her and said to Rosenberg: “Are you gonna beat it ’r not?”
“You notice I’m still standing here, don’t you?” Rosenberg asked, trembling a bit, but holding a lurid roar in his head, in spite of the sick pain in his breast.