Moran looked up quickly to meet the snapping eyes of the younger man.
“Just what do you mean?” he snapped. “What miracle?”
“⸺, you got down safe, didn’t you?” inquired Scarth, with elaborate sarcasm.
Moran’s eyes seemed to thicken, and there were red spots in them as he rose to his feet. He bent over, like some heavy-shouldered bear, resting his ham-like hands on the desk as he glared into Dumpy’s face. He felt as if he was about to explode—every nerve was raw and jumping. His words were blurred, seeming to come from his lips with difficulty us he mumbled—
“Scarth, I swear that if you don’t quit shooting off your mouth—”
“What?” Scarth shot back, perverse enmity in every line of his fat face.
Moran straightened, and his fingers were moving jerkily, his fists closed.
“That I’ll ram your teeth down your throat, ⸺ you. Now you get the ⸺ out of here before I throw you out—and don’t let me get started on you, do you hear? You’ve picked on me from the start, and I’ll put you in a hospital if you say another ⸺ word!”
Hate was in the air. The indomitable Scarth held his ground, for the moment, before the dark, grim giant whose face reflected black fury and tortured, helpless wrath.
For a long moment their eyes cocked. Suddenly it seemed that Dumpy realized that Moran could have picked him up and broken him in two, and was about to do it. There was a semi-madness in the bigger man’s gaze, the fruit of strained days and sleepless nights.