He stepped forward to meet the Count, a stoutly built, heavy man, who had reckoned on closing with an undersized Frenchman.

There was no time to rectify mistakes.

Curtis met his rival's onset with a beautiful half-arm jab on the nose.

Scientifically, it was perfect, since the blow was delivered at the back of the Count's head with complete disregard of intervening tissues, and its recipient went down like one of those pins which succumbed so regularly to the ball bowled by a colossal fist in the Broadway electric sign.

The only difference was that the pin fell noiselessly, whereas Count Vassilan roared like a bull in anguish.
In the next instant Curtis, who, for a mild-mannered person, appeared to possess a singularly close acquaintance with the ethics of a street row, sprang at the automobile, pushed back a man who was getting out, slammed the door, seized the speed levers, and bent them hopelessly with a violent tug.
A swearing chauffeur fumbled in the seat, but was in no real hurry to alight, because he had noted the Count's _debacle_, and Curtis ran to the two cowering women.
"In with you!" he said cheerily, adding, with a grin at the driver: "Fifty for you if we win clear.