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." "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.