Doorman

Up and down in front of Reuben's restaurant on Upper Broadway, Manhattan, struts a big black man in a longtail coat. He is John Lester Johnson, sparring partner of many fighters, who once was drubbed by Jack Dempsey. Now his life is free and easy; he looks the white folks over as they pass through the door, keeps out the trashy ones, lets in the hungry ones, bows to the haughty ones, spreads his smile. Last week, while he stood displaying his buttons, a taxicab snarled down the street and stopped before him. Doorman Johnson helped two people out, waited for the taxi to move along. Its driver, one Edward Cohen, seemed inclined to loiter, to dawdle. "Hump yo'self, Jew boy," said Doorman Johnson.

Insulted, Mr. Cohen replied shrilly, intimating that the streets were free for those who cared to hasten or to tarry; adding further that he was not to be trifled with by a person of inferior coloring. He rose from his safe seat behind the steering wheel and thrust his sallow, ratlike countenance as close as possible to that of Mr. Johnson.

Doorman Johnson smiled his ivory smile. One of his fists moved forward a few inches. Mr. Cohen fell to the ground, spat out two teeth, screamed for a policeman.

Haled to court, Mr. Johnson said: "In trying to keep him from hitting me with a crank handle, my hand accidentally came into contact with the lower part of his jaw."

The complaint was dismissed.