counting it out—two dimes, a quarter, and fifty cents. "There," he said.
For a second Jurgis waited, expecting to see him turn again. "My ninety-nine dollars," he said.
"What ninety-nine dollars?" demanded the bartender.
"My change!" he cried—"the rest of my hundred!"
"Go on," said the bartender, "you're nutty!"
The man And Jurgis stared at him with wild eyes. For an instant horror reigned in him—black, paralyzing, awful horror, clutching him at the heart; and then came rage, in surging, blinding floods—he screamed aloud, and seized the glass and hurled it at the other's head ducked, and it missed him by half an inch; he rose again and faced Jurgis, who was vaulting over the bar with his one well arm, and dealt him a smashing blow in the face, hurling him backward upon the floor. Then, as Jurgis scrambled to his feet again and started round the counter after him, he shouted at the top of his voice, "Help! help!"
Jurgis seized a bottle off the counter as he ran; and as the bartender made a leap he hurled the missile at him with all his force. It just grazed his head, and shivered into a thousand pieces against the post of the door. Then Jurgis started back, rushing at the man again in the middle of the room. This time, in his blind frenzy, he came without a bottle, and that was all the bartender wanted—he met him halfway and floored him with a sledge-hammer drive between the eyes. An instant later the screen-doors flew open, and two men rushed in—just as Jurgis was getting to his feet again, foaming at the mouth with rage, and trying to tear his broken arm out of its bandages.
"Look out!" shouted the bartender. "He's got a knife!" Then, seeing that the two were disposed to join in the fray, he made another rush at Jurgis, and knocked aside his feeble defence and sent him tumbling again; and the three flung themselves upon him, rolling and kicking about the place.
A second later a policeman dashed in, and the bartender
