“What ninety-nine dollars?” demanded the bartender.

“My change!” he cried⁠—“the rest of my hundred!”

“Go on,” said the bartender, “you’re nutty!”

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. The man 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!”