THE POULTRY BOOK. 
143 
sprang together high up in the air, and for a moment nothing v\’’as to he seen but 
a confused mass of legs, v/ings, and feathers. 
As they rebounded from the force of the blow the result of the struggle was 
eyident. Gillingham’s bird had been hit ; the spur of the red cock had gone 
through the neck. ‘ He’s throated,’ cried out young Green ; ‘ two to one on the 
black- red.’ 
“ The ‘ setters ’ caught up their birds in an instant, and smoothing their rutiled 
plumage, again placed them on the mat. But the contrast was striking. Old 
Sam’s bird looked fiercer than ever, and was hard to hold. But Gillingham’s ‘pile’ 
stood unsteady, and though he rushed forward with the courage of desperation, the 
red cock sprang above him, and the steel heels were buried up to their hilts in the 
body of his prostrate foe. 
“ The second fight was over in a few seconds ; at the first fly the victor drove 
his spur through the centre of the back into the heart of his opponent, whose head 
sank, blood poured in a stream from his mouth, and he fell forward and died without 
a struggle. 
“ The third was a different sort of thing every way. Old Sam’s bird was a 
strong beautiful duckwing, Gillingham’s a Birchen grey. The advantage, at first, 
was altogether with the duckwing, which was a stronger bird, and longer in the 
reach of the neck, but the Birchen was of the highest courage, and fought without 
flinching ; at last, when nearly overpowered, he struck the duckwing in the head, 
and the blow deprived his opponent of sight, either wholly or partially. 
“ It was a cruel sight to see these noble birds, the stronger blinded, but still 
trying to seize his adversary with his beak and hold him, vdiilst he struck him down 
with his spurs ; the weaker, with his life ebbing rapidly away, but still fighting to 
the death against his blinded foe. . At last the duckwing caught him by the throat, 
and leaping into the air above, brought down the spurs with a stroke that no living 
bird could have withstood. 
“At this moment there was heard a loud and angry discussion, followed by a 
hurried knocldng at the door of the room. Instantly a vision of the court-house 
rose up to my mind, with a certain hard-featured clerical magistrate on the bench, 
and your friend Tegg and one or two others in the dock. This vision rapidly 
progressed, and a homily on the brutality of such sports, and the folly of fining 
men of wealth and position, was imagined by my fertile brain, the whole concluding 
with an idea of a sentence of two months at the county gaol, in grey fustian, and 
with hair dressed after the most approved Newgate cut. My imagination must 
have been very rapid, for in an instant the knocking was repeated, still louder than 
before. As I looked round, I could not help laughing at the blank visages of the 
gentlemen present. Old Sam, however, seemed to take it easy, but that was not to 
be wondered at : he knew what it was, as he was once in trouble about a bull-bait 
which took place at three o’clock one fine July morning on the Lancashire moors. 
“‘Try the window,’ said Tom Green. ‘It’s too high,’ said the pudgy Mayor; 
* besides, there’s certain to be some of them in the yard.’ — ‘ Open the door/ called 
