WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
much the more severely punished of the two : 
his wings drooped, his bill gaped for air. He 
could not come to close quarters, and his spurs 
were no match for those of the Cock. He 
had his wings, but flight is only a last resort in 
such a duel as this. Flight means a certain 
precariousness of balance at the moment of 
alighting, and Creaban dared not take any risks. 
He knew that a false step or an instant's delay 
in fence, and the Cock might snatch a hold of 
his neck feathers, and where the Cock held 
there he struck. One of those lightning blows 
would smash his skull or rip up the big vessels 
of his throat. The trees around him, the 
watching hens, all swam together in a red mist. 
He saw nothing but his enemy's face, barbed 
by a stabbing bill, and although his heart 
thudded as though it would beat its way out 
of his ears, still he urged his tired muscles to 
greater effort to escape the Cock's terrible 
spurs. Already one slashing kick had gone 
home and stripped a crimson feathered tag ot 
skin from his thigh, laying the silver tendons 
bare. He seemed to be nothing but a spring- 
ing kicking automaton : he had long ago for- 
gotten why he fought. He only knew by a 
strong inexorable instinct that come what might 
he must not run away. If he quitted the field 
now his right to the wood would be gone. 
198 
