He was in for it—it couldn’t be helped.
Harry immediately punched Rosenberg in the jaw and stomach, in quick succession, and Rosenberg reeled back but recovered his balance and advanced with a snarl and wildly swinging arms. They fought around the sidewalk for the next half minute, while an increasing circle of men and women gathered silently about them. The spectators made no effort to interfere, but watched with that intent, hungrily curious impersonality that usually possesses city crowds in such a situation.
Blanche stood with a numb fear and a helpless anger heavy within her, as she nervously twisted her little white handkerchief and tried to look over the heads of the spectators. Was there anything in life except trouble, and browbeating, and every one trying to pull you a different way ... and that vile brother of hers ... she’d fix him for this audacity ... poor Rosenberg, how she had unwittingly lured him into this mess ... he was more nervy that she had ever given him credit for ... perhaps Harry was half killing him ... poor, poor boy.
Rosenberg fought desperately, his courage reviving to an unnatural fervor beneath the repeated stinging blows, but Harry was far too swift and strong for him, and an uppercut to the jaw finally knocked Rosenberg to his knees. At this juncture some one yelled: “Jiggers, here comes a cop!” The ring of onlookers broke instantly, and some of them sped around the corner and walked swiftly down the side street, while others stood about indecisively. Harry promptly jumped into a nearby taxicab and was driven away—he had done his job and didn’t mean to get arrested for it. Blanche hurried to Rosenberg and helped him to his feet, just as the policeman, with the proverbial lateness of his kind, strode up to them. Rosenberg’s left eye was discolored and a rivulet of blood dropped from his swollen lips.
“What’s all this rumpus about—where’s the fellow that beat you up?” the policeman asked, loudly.
For a moment, Blanche was about to betray her brother, but she checked herself—what good would it do? Her hand tugged pleadingly at Rosenberg’s arm.
“We were walking along when some enemy of his came up and hit him,” she answered. “I don’t know who the fellow was.”
“Well, y’r escort knows, all right,” the policeman said, turning to Rosenberg. “Who was he, come on, loosen up.”
“I can’t tell you ’cause I don’t want to make any charges against him,” Rosenberg answered, slowly. “He started it and I had to defend myself, that’s all.”
The officer turned disgustedly to the sprinkling of bystanders.