Now, upon this young man Harlson, during this conversation, had come a
certain increased ill humor. He was in no violent mood, as yet, but he
was not, as has been said, one for a big flabby brute to thus annoy.
He was quiet enough, though.

"I've come into a restaurant to get my supper."

The man's red face became redder still. "If you don't get out, I'll
throw you out!"

Harlson stood up. "I'll not go!" he said, and then the man rushed upon
him.

It was only a clean, quick blow, but there was no check nor parry to
mar its full effectiveness. The man plunged forward too confidently,
the blow caught him fairly in the face, on the fullness of the cheek,
just under the eye, and those bronzed knuckles cut in to the bone. It
was a wicked blow, and its force was great enough to hurl the whole
body back. The man whirled away under it, and he went toppling down,
with his arms thrown up wildly. As he fell, he pitched still further
back, in his effort to save himself, and his head struck the
wainscoting as he reached the floor. Blood gushed from his cut cheek.
It was a moment or two before he clambered slowly to his feet.

"Shall I hit you just once more?" was Harlson's query.

The man did not answer. The woman stood looking on curiously, but
saying nothing. Harlson waited for a time, then told his assailant to
go away; and the man picked up his hat and stumbled out upon the street.