whom
science and prudence were not needed. He stuck out his neck and ran
at Long-legs, evidently expecting that Long-legs would turn and flee
in a panic. Long-legs jumped to let him pass under, and came down
on the unwary P.T. with the crushing force of his double bulk. The
splay feet flattened the game-cock to the ground, and, while he lay
there helpless, this victor-by-a-fluke began to peck and tear at his
head and comb in a most brutal and unsportsmanlike manner.

With a hoarse howl of rage and concern, Hiram rushed across the garden,
the dirt flying behind him. The hens squawked and fled, and the
conqueror, giving one startled look at the approaching vengeance,
abandoned his victim, and closed the line of retreat over the fence.

"He didn't git at his eyes," shouted Hiram, grabbing up his champion
from the dirt, "but"--making hasty survey of the bleeding head--"but
the jeebingoed cannibal has et one gill and pretty near pecked his
comb off. It wa'n't square! It wa'n't square!" he bellowed, advancing
toward the fence where Reeves was leaning. "Ye tried to kill a
thousand-dollar bird by a skin-game, and I'll have it out of your
hide."

Reeves pulled a pole out of the fence.

"Don't ye come across here," he gritted. "I'll brain ye! It was your
own rooster-fight. You put it up. You got licked. What's the matter
with you?" A grin of pure satisfaction curled under his beard.

"You never heard of true sport. You don't know what it means. He stood
on him and started to eat him. All he thinks of is eatin' up something.
It wa'n't fair." Hiram caressed the bleeding head of P.T. with
quivering hand.

"Fair!" sneered Reeves. "You're talkin' as though this was a
prize-fight for the championship of the world! My--I mean, Mis'
Pike's rooster licked, didn't he? Well, when a rooster's licked, he's
licked, and there ain't nothin' more to it."

"That's your idee of sport, is it?" demanded Hiram, stooping to wipe
his bloody hand on the grass.

"It's my idee of a rooster-fight," retorted Reeves. In his triumph
he was not unwilling to banter repartee with the hateful Hiram. "You
fellers with what you call sportin' blood"--he sneered the
words--"come along and think nobody else can't do anything right but
you. You fetch along cat-meat with feathers on it"--he pointed at
the vanquished P.T.--"and expect it to stand any show with a real
fighter." Now he pointed to the Widow Pike's rooster sauntering away
with his harem about him.