"Oh, you," Grove turned on him. In his voice repressed fury and utter contempt seemed to struggle for mastery. "One would naturally expect you to support any extravagant claim from such a source. You fraternized with them. No doubt you find yourself quite comfortable on terms of equality with them. Particularly since you went the length of picking up a wife from among them. I have had about—"
Rod got to his feet. Something in his face cut short Grove's sentence.
"What you've had is not a patch to what you'll get," Rod said. "You yellow dog!"
The open palm of his hand popped with a dull smacking sound on his brother's mouth.
But characterizing a man as a yellow dog does not necessarily make him one. Grove spat out the crushed cigar and bitter ashes and lunged at Rod. He missed. While he was off balance, Rod knocked him down.
He rose, stood one hesitant moment, hands up like a boxer, head hunched between his shoulders. But when he rushed it was not to strike, only to grasp.
"Don't let him get hold of you," Phil warned sharply.
Rod didn't need the warning. He knew Grove's strength, was aware of his purpose. In school, Grove had been a hammer thrower, a putter of the shot. He had never been beaten at his weight as a wrestler. And though he was ten years past those athletics, he was dangerous still at grips. Rod twisted aside, evaded his reach, struck and dodged, struck and dodged again, quick sharp punishing blows that jerked Grove's hands defensively up to guard his face. When he did that, Rod put all his weight into a blow that would have ended the scrimmage if it had reached Grove's jaw. It was deflected by his forearm, smashed his ear. But it staggered him against a bookcase so that broken glass fell with a tinkle. Rod followed up his advantage, and Grove went down again.
Phil had his back against the door.
"It's locked," he announced calmly, in the brief time it took Grove to rise. "May the best man win."