"i admit that the old berserk blood of the smiths boiled at that juncture. i picked up a sleep-producer from the floor, as comrade brady would say, and handed it to the big-stick merchant. he went down like a sack of coal over the bookcase, and at that moment i rather fancy the other gentleman must have got busy with his club. at any rate, somebody suddenly loosed off some fifty thousand dollars' worth of fireworks, and the next thing i knew was that the curtain had risen for the next act on me, discovered sitting in a prison cell, with an out-size in lumps on my forehead."