“What’s to do with you?” he said, with studied contempt.

“Nothing,” admitted the intruder.  “And what harm is he doing you?”

“That’s my bizness,” answered the hostler, and tightened his clutch of Sleepy Sol’s nape.

“Well, you’d better not mind it,” answered the young man calmly.  “Let go."’

The hostler’s thick lips emitted a disdainful laugh.

“Let go, d’you hear?” repeated the young man.

“I’ll let go at your nose,” said the hostler, clenching his knobby fist.

“Very well,” said the young man.  “Then I’ll pull yours.”

“Oho!” said the hostler, his scowl growing fiercer.  “Yer means bizness, does yer?” With that he sent Sleepy Sol staggering along the road and rolled up his shirt-sleeves.  His coat was already off.

The young man did not remove his; he quietly assumed the defensive.  The hostler sparred up to him with grim earnestness, and launched a terrible blow at his most characteristic feature.  The young man blandly put it on one side, and planted a return blow on the hostler’s ear.  Enraged, his opponent sprang upon him.  The young Jew paralyzed him by putting his left hand negligently into his pocket.  With his remaining hand he closed the hostler’s right eye, and sent the flesh about it into mourning.  Then he carelessly tapped a little blood from the hostler’s nose, gave him a few thumps on the chest as if to test the strength of his lungs, and laid him sprawling in the courtyard.  A brother hostler ran out from the stables and gave a cry of astonishment.

“You’d better wipe his face,” said the young man curtly.

The newcomer hurried back towards the stables.

“Vait a moment,” said Sleepy Sol “I can sell you a sponge sheap; I’ve got a beauty in my bag.”

There were plenty of sponges about, but the newcomer bought the second-hand sponge.

“Do you want any more?” the young man affably inquired of his prostrate adversary.

The hostler gave a groan.  He was shamed before a friend whom he had early convinced of his fistic superiority.

“No, I reckon he don’t,” said his friend, with a knowing grin at the conqueror.

“Then I will wish you a good day,” said the young man.  “Come along, father.”

“Yes, ma son-in-law,” said Sleepy Sol.

“Do you know who that was, Joe?” said his friend, as he sponged away the blood.

Joe shook his head.

“That was Dutch Sam,” said his friend in an awe-struck whisper.

All Joe’s body vibrated with surprise and respect.  Dutch Sam was the champion bruiser of his time; in private life an eminent dandy and a prime favorite of His Majesty George IV., and Sleepy Sol had a beautiful daughter and was perhaps prepossessing himself when washed for the Sabbath.

“Dutch Sam!” Joe repeated.

“Dutch Sam!  Why, we’ve got his picter hanging up inside, only he’s naked to the waist.”