"
Monohan stepped back and slipped out of his coat. His face was crimson.
"By God, I'll teach you something," he snarled.
He lunged forward as he spoke, shooting a straight-arm blow for Fyfe's
face. It swept through empty air, for Fyfe, poised on the balls of his
feet, ducked under the driving fist, and slapped Monohan across the
mouth with the open palm of his hand.
"Tag," he said sardonically. "You're It."
Monohan pivoted, and rushing, swung right and left, missing by inches.
Fyfe's mocking grin seemed to madden him completely. He rushed again,
launching another vicious blow that threw him partly off his balance.
Before he could recover, Fyfe kicked both feet from under him, sent him
sprawling on the moss.
Stella stood like one stricken. The very thing she dreaded had come
about. Yet the manner of its unfolding was not as she had visualized it
when she saw Fyfe near at hand. She saw now a side of her husband that
she had never glimpsed, that she found hard to understand. She could
have understood him beating Monohan senseless, if he could. A murderous
fury of jealousy would not have surprised her. This did. He had not
struck a blow, did not attempt to strike.
She could not guess why, but she saw that he was playing with Monohan,
making a fool of him, for all Monohan's advantage of height and reach.
Fyfe moved like the light, always beyond Monohan's vengeful blows,
slipping under those driving fists to slap his adversary, to trip him,
mocking him with the futility of his effort.
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