Without hesitating Lambert raised the whip. George sprang and got his hands on it, intent only on avoiding a blow that would have carried the same unbearable sting as Sylvia's riding crop. Such tactics took Lambert by surprise. George's two hands against his one on the stock were victorious. The whip flew to one side. Lambert, flushing angrily, started after it. George barred his path, raising his fists. "You don't touch that thing again." Lambert's indecision, his hands hanging at his sides, hurt George nearly as much as the lashing would have done. He had to destroy that attitude of sheer superiority. "I'm not sure you're a man," he said, thickly, "but you tried to hit me, so you can put your pretty hands up or take it in the face." He aimed a vicious blow. Lambert side-stepped and countered. George's ear rang. He laughed, his self-respect rushing back with the keen joy of battle. In Lambert's face, stripped of its habitual repression, he recognized an equal excitement. It was a man's fight, with blood drawn at the first moment, staining both of them. Lambert boxed skillfully, and his muscles were hard, but after the first moment George saw victory, and set out to force it. He looked for fear in the other's eyes then, and longed to see it, but those eyes remained as unafraid as Sylvia's until there wasn't left in them much of anything conscious. As a last chance Lambert clinched, and they went down, fighting like a pair of furious terriers. George grinned as he felt those eclectic hands endeavouring in the most brotherly fashion to torture him. He managed to pin them to the ground. He laughed happily. "Thought you hated to touch me." "You fight like a tiger, anyway," Lambert gasped. "Had enough?" Lambert nodded. "I know when I'm through." George didn't release him at once. His soul expanded with a sense of power and authority earned by his own effort. It seemed an omen. It urged him too far. "Then," he mused, "I guess I'd better let you run home and tell your father what I've done to you." "That," Lambert said, "proves I was right, and I'm sorry I fought you." George tried to think. He felt hot and angry. Was the other, after all, the better man? "I take it back," he muttered. "Ought to have had enough sense to know that a fellow that fights like you's no tattle-tale." "Thanks, Morton." George's sense of power grew. He couldn't commence too soon to use it. "See here, Mr. Planter, I came up here to help with some horses your people didn't know how to handle, and let myself get shifted to this other job; but I'm not your father's slave, and anyway I'm getting out." He increased the pressure on Lambert's arms. "Just to remind you what we've been fighting about, and that I'm not your slave, you call me Mr. Morton, or George, just as if I was about as good as you." Lambert smiled broadly. "Will you kindly let me go--George?" George sprang up, grinning. "How you feel, Mr. Lam----" He caught himself--"Mr. Planter?"