"The best man will win," Rod panted.
He tingled. A fine exultant feeling that he dealt justice in the only adequate manner uplifted him. He had seldom fought in the twenty-three years of his existence. He had never imagined it would give him so keen a satisfaction to knock a man down. Yet it didn't surprise him. He knew in that moment that for years he had been longing to punish Grove as he intended to punish him now. Even in that stress of passion his brain, the rational, critical part of him, found time to wonder why so brutal an action seemed so eminently fit, so natural, such a pleasure.
Grove came at him again, striking wild, blood trickling from his mouth, from his nostrils. In the shift and exchange he trapped Rod against a heavy chair. They grappled, went to the floor with a crash. Grove's arm pinned him by the neck. Rod felt the other seeking a crotch hold. He made a violent effort, broke loose, thrust himself clear, bounded to his feet.
He had matched strength for strength and beaten Grove at his own strong man's game. There was a thrill in that. He could break any hold Grove could put on him. When he realized that, he dropped all defense. He crowded within the scope of Grove's arms and struck as hard and quickly as he could drive his arms, fists thudding against Grove's body, over his heart, on his face,—until Grove's legs buckled under him and he sank on all fours.
Rod stepped back, dropped his hands.
"Enough?" he asked briefly.
Grove nodded, voiceless. His face was an unsightly mess.
And as Rod opened his mouth to speak further, the library door rattled, an imperative knock sounded. The voice of Norquay senior demanded testily to know why the door was locked. Phil flashed a look of mild dismay at Rod and turned the key. Their father walked in.