"You infernal rascal!" cried the other. "I'll show you the way out of
that plantation with the toe of my boot. Do you dare to stand there on
my land and talk back at me?" He advanced with a menacing face and his
dog-whip half raised. "Well, are you going?" he cried, as he swung it
into the air.

Tom Spring jumped back to avoid the threatened blow.

"Go slow, mister," said he. "It's only fair that you should know where
you are. I'm Spring, the prize-fighter. Maybe you have heard my name."

"I thought you were a rascal of that breed," said the man. "I've had the
handling of one or two of you gentry before, and I never found one that
could stand up to me for five minutes. Maybe you would like to try?"

"If you hit me with that dog-whip, mister----"

"There, then!" He gave the young man a vicious cut across the shoulder.
"Will that help you to fight?"

"I came here to fight," said Tom Spring, licking his dry lips. "You can
drop that whip, mister, for I _will_ fight. I'm a trained man and ready.
But you would have it. Don't blame me."

The man was stripping the blue coat from his broad shoulders. There
was a sprigged satin vest beneath it, and they were hung together on an
alder branch.

"Trained are you?" he muttered. "By the Lord, I'll train you before I am
through!"

Any fears that Tom Spring may have had lest he should be taking some
unfair advantage were set at rest by the man's assured manner and by the
splendid physique, which became more apparent as he discarded a black
satin tie, with a great ruby glowing in its centre, and threw aside
the white collar which cramped his thick muscular neck. He then, very
deliberately, undid a pair of gold sleeve-links, and, rolling up his
shirt-sleeves, disclosed two hairy and muscular arms, which would have
served as a model for a sculptor.

"Come nearer the stile," said he, when he had finished. "There is more
room."

The prize-fighter had kept pace with the preparations of his formidable
antagonist. His own hat, coat, and vest hung suspended upon a bush. He
advanced now into the open space which the other had indicated.

"Ruffianing or fighting?" asked the amateur, coolly.

"Fighting."

"Very good," said the other. "Put up your hands, Spring. Try it out."

They were standing facing one another in a grassy ring intersected by
the path at the outlet of the wood. The insolent and overbearing look
had passed away from the amateur's face, but a grim half-smile was