Locasto flashed at him a look of surprise, measuring him from head to foot.
"You're a brute," went on the Jam-wagon evenly; "a cowardly brute."
Black Jack's face grew dark and terrible. His eyes glinted sparks of fire.
"See here, Englishman," he said, "this isn't your scrap. What are you butting in about?"
"It isn't," said the Jam-wagon, and I could see the flame of fight brighten joyously in him. "It isn't, but I'll soon make it mine. There!"
Quick as a flash he dealt the other a blow on the cheek, an open-handed blow that stung like a whiplash.
"Now, fight me, you coward."
There and then Locasto seemed about to spring on his challenger. With hands clenched and teeth bared, he half bent as if for a charge. Then, suddenly, he straightened up.
"All right," he said softly; "Spitzstein, can we have the Opera House?"
"Yes, I guess so. We can clear away the benches."