“I’ll kill him,” cried Anthony, pitching and straining from side to side. “Let me kill—”
“Throw him out!” ordered Bloeckman excitedly, just as a small man with a pockmarked face pushed his way hurriedly through the spectators.
“Any trouble, Mr. Black?”
“This bum tried to blackmail me!” said Bloeckman, and then, his voice rising to a faintly shrill note of pride: “He got what was coming to him!”
The little man turned to a waiter.
“Call a policeman!” he commanded.
“Oh, no,” said Bloeckman quickly. “I can’t be bothered. Just throw him out in the street. … Ugh! What an outrage!” He turned and with conscious dignity walked toward the washroom just as six brawny hands seized upon Anthony and dragged him toward the door. The “bum” was propelled violently to the sidewalk, where he landed on his hands and knees with a grotesque slapping sound and rolled over slowly onto his side.
The shock stunned him. He lay there for a moment in acute distributed pain. Then his discomfort became centralized in his stomach, and he regained consciousness to discover that a large foot was prodding him.
“You’ve got to move on, y’ bum! Move on!”
It was the bulky doorman speaking. A town car had stopped at the curb and its occupants had disembarked—that is, two of the women were standing on the dashboard, waiting in offended delicacy until this obscene obstacle should be removed from their path.
“Move on! Or else I’ll throw y’on!”
“Here—I’ll get him.”
This was a new voice; Anthony imagined that it was somehow more tolerant, better disposed than the first. Again arms were about him, half lifting, half dragging him into a welcome shadow four doors up the street and propping him against the stone front of a millinery shop.
“Much obliged,” muttered Anthony feebly. Someone pushed his soft hat down upon his head and he winced.
“Just sit still, buddy, and you’ll feel better. Those guys sure give you a bump.”
“I’m going back and kill that dirty—” He tried to get to his feet but collapsed backward against the wall.
“You can’t do nothin’ now,” came the voice. “Get ’em some other time. I’m tellin’ you straight, ain’t I? I’m helpin’ you.”
Anthony nodded.
“An’ you better go home. You dropped a tooth tonight, buddy. You know that?”
Anthony explored his mouth with his tongue, verifying the statement. Then with an effort he raised his hand and located the gap.
“I’m agoin’ to get you home, friend. Whereabouts do you live—”
“Oh, by God! By God!” interrupted Anthony, clenching his fists passionately. “I’ll show the dirty bunch. You help me show ’em and I’ll fix it with you. My grandfather’s Adam Patch, of Tarrytown—”
“Who?”
“Adam Patch, by God!”
“You wanna go all the way to Tarrytown?”
“No.”
“Well, you tell me where to go, friend, and I’ll get a cab.”
Anthony made out that his Samaritan was a short, broad-shouldered individual, somewhat the worse for wear.
“Where d’you live, hey?”
Sodden and shaken as he was, Anthony felt that his address would be poor collateral for his wild boast about his grandfather.
“Get me a cab,” he commanded, feeling in his pockets.
A taxi drove up. Again Anthony essayed to rise, but his ankle swung loose, as though it were in two sections. The Samaritan must needs help him in—and climb in after him.
“See here, fella,” said he, “you’re soused and you’re bunged up, and you won’t be able to get in your house ’less somebody carries you in, so I’m going with you, and I know you’ll make it all right with me. Where d’you live?”
With some reluctance Anthony gave his address. Then, as the cab moved off, he leaned his head against the man’s shoulder and went into a shadowy, painful torpor. When he awoke, the man had lifted him from the cab in front of the apartment on Claremont Avenue and was trying to set him on his feet.
“Can y’ walk?”
“Yes—sort of. You better not come in with me.” Again he felt helplessly in his pockets. “Say,” he continued, apologetically, swaying dangerously on his feet, “I’m afraid I haven’t got a cent.”
“Huh?”
“I’m cleaned out.”
“Sa‑a‑ay! Didn’t I hear you promise you’d fix it with me? Who’s goin’ to pay the taxi bill?” He turned to the driver for confirmation. “Didn’t you hear him say he’d fix it? All that about his grandfather?”
“Matter of fact,” muttered Anthony imprudently, “it was you did all the talking; however, if you come round, tomorrow—”
At this point the taxi-driver leaned from his cab and said ferociously:
“Ah, poke him one, the dirty cheap skate. If he wasn’t a bum they wouldn’ta throwed him out.”
In answer to this suggestion the fist of the Samaritan shot out like a battering-ram and sent Anthony crashing down against the stone steps of the apartment-house, where he lay without movement, while the tall buildings rocked to and fro above him. …
After a long while he awoke and was conscious that it had grown much colder. He tried to move himself but his muscles refused to function. He was curiously anxious to know the time, but he reached for his watch, only to find the pocket empty. Involuntarily his lips formed an immemorial phrase:
“What a night!”
Strangely enough, he was almost sober. Without moving his head he looked
