The musicians hastened to obey, and before the cheers had died, the strains of the czardas filled the room.  With the quick reaction from the tragic to the gay, the company swung into this joyous and exciting dance.  Samuel Sprink, seizing Irma, whirled her off into the crowd struggling and protesting, but all in vain.  After the dance there was a general rush for the beer keg, with much noise and good-natured horse play.  At the other end of the room, however, there was a fierce struggle going on.  Samuel Sprink, excited by the dance and, it must be confessed, by an unusual devotion to the beer keg that evening, was still retaining his hold of Irma, and was making determined efforts to kiss her.

“Let me go!” cried the girl, struggling to free herself.  “You must not touch me!  Let me go!”

“Oh, come now, little one,” said Samuel pleasantly, “don’t be so mighty stiff about it.  One kiss and I let you go.”

“That’s right, Samuel, my boy,” shouted Rosenblatt; “she only wants coaxing just a little mucher.”

Rosenblatt’s words were followed by a chorus of encouraging cheers, for Samuel was not unpopular among the men, and none could see any good reason why a girl should object to be kissed, especially by such a man as Samuel, who was already so prosperous and who had such bright prospects for the future.

But Irma continued to struggle, till Kalman, running to her side, cried, “Let my sister go!”

“Go away, Kalman.  I am not hurting your sister.  It’s only fun.  Go away,” said Sprink.

“She does not think it fun,” said the boy quietly.  “Let her go.”

“Oh, go away, you leetle kid.  Go away and sit down.  You think yourself too much.”

It was Rosenblatt’s harsh voice.  As he spoke, he seized the boy by the collar and with a quick jerk flung him back among the crowd.  It was as if he had fired some secret magazine of passion in the boy’s heart.  Uttering the wild cry of a mad thing, Kalman sprang at him with such lightning swiftness that Rosenblatt was borne back and would have fallen, but for those behind.  Recovering himself, he dealt the boy a heavy blow in the face that staggered him for a moment, but only for a moment.  It seemed as if the boy had gone mad.  With the same wild cry, and this time with a knife open in his hand, he sprang at his hated enemy, stabbing quick, fierce stabs.  But this time Rosenblatt was ready.  Taking the boy’s stabs on his arm, he struck the boy a terrific blow on the neck.  As Kalman fell, he clutched and hung to his foe, who, seizing him by the throat, dragged him swiftly toward the door.

“Hold this shut,” he said to a friend of his who was following him close.

After they had passed through, the man shut the door and held it fast, keeping the crowd from getting out.

“Now,” said Rosenblatt, dragging the half-insensible boy around to the back of the house, “the time is come.  The chance is too good.  You try to kill me, but there will be one less Kalmar in the world to-night.  There will be a little pay back of my debt to your cursed father.  Take that—­and that.”  As he spoke the words, he struck the boy hard upon the head and face, and then flinging him down in the snow, proceeded deliberately to kick him to death.