esigned to their disdain, happy if only they
condescended to enjoy the grain he spread for them.

At the Long Trestle, Annixter and the priest left the road and took the
trail that crossed Broderson Creek by the clumps of grey-green willows
and led across Quien Sabe to the ranch house, and to the Mission farther
on. They were obliged to proceed in single file here, and Annixter,
who had allowed the priest to go in front, promptly took notice of the
wicker basket he carried. Upon his inquiry, Sarria became confused. "It
was a basket that he had had sent down to him from the city."

"Well, I know--but what's in it?"

"Why--I'm sure--ah, poultry--a chicken or two."

"Fancy breed?"

"Yes, yes, that's it, a fancy breed." At the ranch house, where they
arrived toward five o'clock, Annixter insisted that the priest should
stop long enough for a glass of sherry. Sarria left the basket and his
small black valise at the foot of the porch steps, and sat down in a
rocker on the porch itself, fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat,
and shaking the dust from his cassock. Annixter brought out the decanter
of sherry and glasses, and the two drank to each other's health.

But as the priest set down his glass, wiping his lips with a murmur of
satisfaction, the decrepit Irish setter that had attached himself
to Annixter's house came out from underneath the porch, and nosed
vigorously about the wicker basket. He upset it. The little peg holding
down the cover slipped, the basket fell sideways, opening as it fell,
and a cock, his head enclosed in a little chamois bag such as are used
for gold watches, struggled blindly out into the open air. A second,
similarly hooded, followed. The pair, stupefied in their headgear, stood
rigid and bewildered in their tracks, clucking uneasily. Their tails
were closely sheared. Their legs, thickly muscled, and extraordinarily
long, were furnished with enormous cruel-looking spurs. The breed
was unmistakable. Annixter looked once at the pair, then shouted with
laughter.

"'Poultry'--'a chicken or two'--'fancy breed'--ho! yes, I should think
so. Game cocks! Fighting cocks! Oh, you old rat! You'll be a dry nurse
to a burro, and keep a hospital for infirm puppies, but you will fight
game cocks. Oh, Lord! Why, Sarria, this is as good a grind as I ever
heard. There's the Spanish cropping out, after all."

Speechless with chagrin, the priest bundled the cocks into the basket
and catching up the valis