You’re fresh from other people’s battles. You’ll have to Jet us work this out in the way most suitable to Americans in America.”
“Biff’s going,” Jimmie said bluntly.
Biff whirled. “Says who?”
“Says me, Biff.” Jimmie was very quiet.
“You think you can make me?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
Jimmie shrugged. He was still sitting at his place. He picked up the letter. “Here.
It tells you to report. You’ll pass the physical, because you have the constitution of a buffalo. So-you’ll go. If you”—he spoke still more quietly—“or Dad, or Mother, or anybody tries to weasel on this, I’ll go before the draft board or committee—or whatever it is—and report the whole unselfish and patriotic conversation we have just been having here! I promise you!”
He stopped there—because Biff slugged him. He hit from the floor, with all his might. Biff was also sitting. Otherwise the blow would have downed Jimmie. It caught him on the cheekbone. It made a nasty sound. Sarah screamed. Biff grabbed his fist and rubbed it. He said, “I’ll run this show! You interfere—and that’s just a sample! I’ll about kill you!” His voice was shaking.