"You won't be the one to do it!" retorted the boy impudently, as he
placed the cups upon the table.
"I won't? Do you want to see me?"
"Yes, I do."
The salesman got up and kicked Manuel in the shins; the poor boy saw
stars. He gave a cry of pain and then, furious, seized a plate and
sent it flying at the agent's head; the latter ducked and the
projectile crossed the dining-room, crashed through a window pane and
fell into the courtyard, where it smashed with a racket. The salesman
grabbed one of the coffee-pots that was filled with coffee and milk
and hurled it at Manuel with such good aim that it struck the boy in
the face; the youth, blinded with rage and by the coffee and milk,
rushed upon his enemy, cornered him, and took revenge for the insults
and blows with an endless succession of kicks and punches.
"He's killing me! He's killing me!" shrieked the agent in feminine
wails.
"Thief! Clown!" shouted Manuel, employing the street's choicest
repertory of insults.
The Superman and the priest seized Manuel by the arms, leaving him at
the mercy of the salesman, who, beholding the boy thus corralled,
tried to wreak vengeance; but when he was ready to strike, Manuel gave
him such a forceful kick in the stomach that the fellow vomited up his
whole meal.
Everybody took sides against Manuel, except Roberto, who defended him.
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