understood that his office is an important place, used only for the very distinguished business of selling men, women, and little children.  But Romescos is not so easily satisfied.  He pushes the amiable gentleman aside, calls Mr. Lawrence M’Fadden a tyrant what kills niggers by the detestably mean process of starving them to death.  “A pretty feller he is to talk about nigger killin!  And just think what our state has come to when such fellers as him can make votes for the next election!” says Romescos, addressing himself to the vender.  “The Irish influence is fast destroying the political morality of the country.”

Turning to Mr. M’Fadden, who seems preparing for a display of his combativeness, he adds, “Ye see, Mack, ye will lie, and lie crooked too! and ye will steal, and steal dishonourably; and I can lick a dozen on ye quicker nor chain lightnin?  I can send the hol batch on ye-rubbish as it is-to take supper t’other side of sundown.”  To be equal with his adversary, Romescos is evidently preparing himself for the reception of something more than words.  Twice or thrice he is seen to pass his right hand into the left breast pocket of his sack, where commonly his shining steel is secreted.  In another moment he turns suddenly towards the vender, pushes him aside with his left hand, and brings his right in close proximity with Mr. M’Fadden’s left listener.  That individual exhibits signs of renewed courage, to which he adds the significant warning:  “Not quite so close, if you please!”

“As close as I sees fit!” returns the other, with a sardonic grin.  “Why don’t you resent it?-a gentleman would!”

Following the word, Mr. M’Fadden makes a pass at his antagonist, which, he says, is only with the intention of keeping him at a respectful distance.  Scarcely has his arm passed when Romescos cries out, “There! he has struck me!  He has struck me again!” and deals M’Fadden a blow with his clenched fist that fells him lumbering to the floor.  Simultaneously Romescos falls upon his prostrate victim, and a desperate struggle ensues.

The vender, whose sacred premises are thus disgraced, runs out to call the police, while the clerks make an ineffectual attempt to separate the combatants.  Not a policeman is to be found.  At night they may be seen swarming the city, guarding the fears of a white populace ever sensitive of black rebellion.

Like an infuriated tiger, Romescos, nimble as a catamount, is fast destroying every vestige of outline in his antagonist’s face, drenching it with blood, and adding ghastliness by the strangulation he is endeavouring to effect.

“Try-try-trying to-kill-me-eh?  You-you mad brute!” gutters out the struggling man, his eyes starting from the sockets like balls of fire, while gore and saliva foam from his mouth and nostrils as if his struggles are in death.

“Kill ye-kill ye?” Romescos rejoins, the shaggy red hair falling in tufts about his face, now burning with desperation:  “it would be killin’ only a wretch whose death society calls for.”