THE PHEASANT-HEN
You are never going to challenge that giant?

CHANTECLER I am!  To appear tall it is sufficient to talk on stilts! [To the GAME COCK, slowly crossing the stage toward him.] Know that such a remark is not to be endured, and permit me to tell you—­[Finding a CHICK between himself and the GAME COCK, he gently puts him aside, saying] Run to your mother, tot! [To the WHITE PILE, looking insolently at his docked comb]—­that you look like a Fool who has mislaid his coxcomb!

THE WHITE PILE
[Astonished.] Fool?  Coxcomb?  What?  What?  What?

CHANTECLER [Beak to beak with the GAME COCK.] What?  What?  What? [A pause.  They arch themselves, with bristling neck-hackle.]

THE WHITE PILE [Emphatically.] In America, during my grand tour, I killed three Claybornes in a day.  I have killed two Sherwoods, three Smoks, and one Sumatra.  I have killed—­let me advise anyone fighting me to take something beforehand to keep down his pulse!—­three Red-game at Cambridge and ten Braekels at Bruges!

CHANTECLER [Very simply.] I, my dear sir, have never killed anything.  But as I have at different times succored, defended, protected, this one and that, I might perhaps be called, in my own fashion, brave.  You need not take these mighty airs with me.  I came here knowing that you would come.  That rose was dangled to afford you the opportunity for brutal stupidity.  You did not fail to nibble at its petals.  Your name?

THE GAME COCK
White Pile.  And yours?

CHANTECLER
Chantecler.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Running desperately to the DOG.] Patou!

CHANTECLER
[To PATOU, who is growling between his teeth.] You, keep out of this!

PATOU
So I will, but it’s rrrrrrrough!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[To CHANTECLER.] A Cock does not risk his life for a Rose!

CHANTECLER
A slur upon a flower is a slur upon the Sun!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Running to the BLACKBIRD.] Do something!  This must be patched up—­You know you had promised me!

THE BLACKBIRD
Everything can be patched up, my dear, except the quarrels of a fellow’s
friends!

THE GUINEA-HEN [Giving loud cries of despair.] Horrible!  Oh, horrible A five-o’clock tea at which guests kill each other!  How dreadful—­[To her son.] that the Tortoise should not have got here yet!

A VOICE
[Crying.] Chantecler, ten against one!

THE GUINEA-HEN [Seating her company, assisting the HENS to climb upon flower-pots, cold-frames, pumpkins.] Quick! quick!

THE BLACKBIRD
Our charming hostess is in great feather, doing the honours of an affair
of honour.

PATOU [To CHANTECLER.] Go in and thrash him.  This crowd is longing for the sight of your blood.