He was in his library when these reflections were passing through his brain, and his attention was attracted by children's voices somewhere outside raised to a high pitch of anger. Stepping to a window, he looked out toward the house of his neighbor, Congressman Weston. He was just in time to see Weston's son, Grover, climb over the low paling fence, and, with a loud and abusive threat, approach Lionel, who was shorter by a head.
“You said I shouldn't say it again,” he cried, “but I do! She is not fit for anybody to go with. My mother wouldn't notice her, and no other nice lady would. People _don't_--they don't go near her!”
Galt's blood was shocked to stillness in his veins, and then, as if by reactionary process, it began to boil. He saw the erect figure of his son stand as if stunned for an instant, and then, like a young tiger, Lionel sprang at the other boy, his little hands balled. Galt heard the blows as they fell on young Weston's fat cheeks, and he chuckled and ground his teeth in blended satisfaction and rage. He sprang through the open window to the grass, and hurriedly skirted a clump of boxwood just in time to see Grover Weston recovering from the unexpected onslaught and beginning to rain blow after blow upon Lionel's white face. The contest was close, despite the inequality in ages and sizes; but the nameless scion of the Gaits, unconscious of his heritage of bravery, was unconquerable. He was there to fight, justly roused as he was, to his last breath. For one instant Grover tore himself from Lionel's bear-like clutch, and stood glowering in sheer astonishment from his battered and bruised face.
“You little bastard, I'll--” And he suddenly hurled his fist into Lionel's face with all his force. It was a staggering blow, but Lionel met it without a whimper or the loss of a breath. He sprang again at his assailant, and, catching him around the neck with his strong left arm, he battered the other boy's face with blow after blow.
“Hit him--that's right, hit him, Lionel!” Galt cried out, in utter forgetfulness of his own incongruous position. “Beat his nasty face to a pulp while you've got him! If you don't do it now, he'll down you when he gets free. Give him his medicine, and give him a full dose. That's the thing--trip him up!”