“Keep quiet!” cried Rosenblatt, rising to his feet, “the police will surely be here!”

“That is true,” cried the black-bearded man, “keep them quiet or the police will herd them in like sheep, like little sheep, baa, baa, baa, baa!”

“The police!” shouted a voice in reply, “who cares for the police?”

A yell of derisive assent rose in response.

“Be quiet!” besought Rosenblatt again.  He was at his wits’ end.  The police might at any time appear and that would end what was for him a very profitable game, and besides might involve him in serious trouble.  “Here you, Joseph!” he cried, addressing a man near him, “another keg of beer!”

Between them they hoisted up a keg of beer on an empty cask, knocked in the head, and set them drinking with renewed eagerness.

“Swine!” he said, seating himself again at the table.  “Come, let us play.”

But the very devil of strife seemed to be in the black-bearded man.  He gibed at the good-natured Dalmatian, setting the Polak at him, suggested crooked dealing, playing recklessly and losing his own and his partner’s money.  At length the inevitable clash came.  As the Dalmatian reached for a trick, the Polak cried out, “Hold!  It is mine!”

“Yes, certainly it is his!” shouted the black-bearded man.

“Liar!  It is mine,” said the Dalmatian, with perfect good temper, and held on to his cards.

“Liar yourself!” hissed the little Polak, thrusting his face toward the Dalmatian.

“Go away,” said the Dalmatian.  His huge open hand appeared to rest a moment on the Polak’s grinning face, and somehow the little man was swept from his seat to the floor.

“Ho, ho,” laughed the Dalmatian, “so I brush away a fly.”

With a face like a demon’s, the Polak sprang at his big antagonist, an open knife in his hand, and jabbed him in the arm.  For a moment the big man sat looking at his assailant as if amazed at his audacity.  Then as he saw the blood running down his fingers he went mad, seized the Polak by the hair, lifted him clear out of his seat, carrying the plank table with him, and thereupon taking him by the back of the neck, proceeded to shake him till his teeth rattled in his head.

At almost the same instant the black-bearded man leaped across the fallen table like a tiger, at Rosenblatt’s throat, and bore him down to the earthen floor in the dark corner.  Sitting astride his chest, his knees on Rosenblatt’s arms, and gripping him by the throat, he held him voiceless and helpless.  Soon his victim lay still, looking up into his assailant’s face in surprise, fear and rage unspeakable.

“Rosenblatt,” said the bearded man in a soft voice, “you know me—­me?”

“No,” gasped Rosenblatt in terrible fury, “what do you—­”

“Look,” said the man.  With his free hand he swept off the black beard which he stuffed into his pocket.

Rosenblatt looked.  “Kalmar!” he gasped, terror in his eyes.