"You're not? You know I can get my brother to kick you out?"
"I don't care. I'm going to do what he said."
"You bloody young fool, he never said you weren't to let me have it."
"I may have misunderstood him. If I did, he'll put it right when he comes back."
"Yes, and a nice story I'll tell him of your damned impertinence. Give me that key."
"Sorry I can't."
"I'll break your bloody neck."
"That won't help you to find the key." Henry was feeling quite cheerful now.
"Christ! . . . You shall get it for that!"
He made two steps to come round the table to get at Henry—and saw the key. At the same instant Henry saw that he saw it. He ran forward to secure it, and in a second they were struggling together like two small boys in a manner unlovely, unscientific, even ludicrous. Ludicrous—had there been an observer, but for the fighters themselves it was one of those uncomfortable struggles when there are no rules of the game and anything may happen at any moment. Duncombe was large but fat and in the worst possible condition, with a large luncheon still unsettled and in a roving state. Moreover he had never been a fighter. Henry was not a fighter either and was handicapped at once because at the first onset his pince-nez were knocked on to the carpet. He fought then blindly in a blind world. He knew that Duncombe was kicking, and struggling to strike at him with his fists. Himself seemed strangely involved in Duncombe's chest, at which he tore with his hands, while he bent his head to avoid the blows. He was breathing desperately, while there was such anger seething in his breast as he had never felt for anything human or inhuman in all his life. He felt Duncombe's waistcoat tear, plunged at the shirt, and at once his fingers felt the bare flesh, the soft fat of Duncombe's well-tended body. He was also conscious that he was muttering "You beast, you beast, you beast!" that his left leg was aching terribly and that Duncombe had his hand now firmly fixed in his hair and was pulling with all his strength.