"How did what went?" Morris asked.
"The prize-fighting."
Morris shook his head. "Not for all the cloak and suit trade on the Pacific slope," he said finally, "would I go to one of them things again. First, a fat Eyetalian by the name Flanagan fights with a young feller, Tom Evans, the Welsh coal-miner, and you never seen nothing like it, Abe, outside a slaughter-house."
"Flanagan don't seem much like an Eyetalian, Mawruss," Abe commented.
"I know it," Morris replied; "but that wouldn't surprise you much if you could seen the one what they call Tom Evans, the Welsh coal-miner."
"Why not?" Abe asked.
"Well, you remember Hyman Feinsilver, what worked by us as a shipping clerk while Jake was sick?"
"Sure I do," Abe replied. "Comes from very decent, respectable people in the old country. His father was a rabbi."
"Don't make no difference about his father, Abe," Morris went on. "That Tom Evans, the Welsh coal-miner, is Hyman Feinsilver what worked by us,
and the way he treated that poor Eyetalian young feller was a shame for the people. It makes me sick to think of it."