I beg and hope, therefore, that you will take no further steps in this matter, but as a man, as a gentleman, leave her to me.

I am willing--" But here something rose again in the master's throat, and the sentence remained unfinished.
The man with the glazed hat, mistaking the master's silence, raised his head with a coarse, brutal laugh, and said in a loud voice: "Want her yourself, do you?
That cock won't fight here, young man!" The insult was more in the tone than in the words, more in the glance than tone, and more in the man's instinctive nature than all these.

The best appreciable rhetoric to this kind of animal is a blow.

The master felt this, and, with his pent-up, nervous energy finding expression in the one act, he struck the brute full in his grinning face.

The blow sent the glazed hat one way and the cue another, and tore the glove and skin from the master's hand from knuckle to joint.