silence, and in silence we rode on until we
came to the tavern called the Coq d'Or.

They were there, the early risers of the Fifty-fourth--a jolly, noisy
crowd, all scarlet and gold; and they set up a cheer, which was half
welcome, half defiance, when we rode into the tavern yard and
dismounted, bowing right and left; and the landlord came to receive us,
and servants followed with champagne-cup, iced; and there was old
Horrock, too, hat in hand, to attend Sir Peter, with a shake of his
wise old head and a smile on his furrowed face--Horrock, the prince of
handlers, with his chicken-men, and his scales, and his Flatbush birds
a-crowing defiance to the duck-wings, spangles, pyles, and Lord knows
what, that his Majesty's Fifty-fourth Regiment of Foot had backed to
win with every penny and farthing they could scrape to lay against us.

I heard old Horrock whisper to Sir Peter, who was reading over the
match-list, "They're the best we can do, sir; combs low-cut, wings
rounded, hackle and saddle trimmed to a T, and the vanes perfect." He
laughed: "What more can I do, sir? They had aniseed in their bread on
the third day, and on the weighing-day sheep-heart, and not two teacups
of water in the seven. They came from the walks in prime condition, and
tartar and jalap did the rest. They sparred free in the boots and took
to the warm ale and sweet-wort, and the rooms were dark except at
feeding. What more can I do, sir, except heel them to a
hair's-breadth?"

"You have no peer, Horrock, and you know it," said Sir Peter, kindly,
and the old man's furrowed face shone as he trotted off to the
covert-room.

Meanwhile I had been hailed by a dozen friends of a dozen different
regiments, good fellows all: Major Jamison of the Partisans; Ensign
Halvar, young Caryl of the Fortieth Foot; Helsing of the Artillery, and
apparently every available commissioned officer of the Fifty-fourth,
including Colonel Eyre, a gentleman with a scientific taste for the pit
that gained him the title of "The Game 'Un" from saucy subalterns,
needless to say without his knowledge.

"A good bird, well handled, freely backed--what more can a gentleman
ask?" said Major Neville, waddling beside Sir Peter as we filed into
the tavern. "My wife calls it a shameful sport, but the cockpit is a
fashionable passion, damme! and a man out o' fashion is worse than an
addled cluck-egg! Eh, Renault? Good gad, sir! Do not cocks fight
unurged, and are not their battles wit