“Watchin’ out for evidence in a law case, probably,” growled Cap’n Sproul, the fear of onshore artfulness ever with him.  “He’d ruther law it any time than have a fair fight, man to man, and that’s the kind of a critter I hate.”

“The widder’s lookin’ out of the kitchen winder,” Hiram announced, “and I’m encouraged to think that mebbe he’ll want to shine a little as her protector, and will come over into the garden to save her hen.  Then will be your time.  He’ll be trespassin’, and I’ll be your witness.  Go ahead and baste the stuffin’ out of him.”

He squatted down at the edge of the garden-patch, holding the impatient P.T. between his hands.

“Usually in a reg’lar match I scruffle his feathers and blow in his eye, Cap’n, but I won’t have to do it this time.  It’s too easy a proposition.  I’m jest tellin’ you about it so that if you ever git interested in fightin’ hens after this, you’ll be thankful to me for a pointer or two.”

“I won’t begin to take lessons yet a while,” the Cap’n grunted.  “It ain’t in my line.”

Hiram tossed his feathered gladiator out upon the garden mould.

“S-s-s-s-!  Eat him up, boy!” he commanded.

P.T. had his eye on the foe, but, with the true instinct of sporting blood, he would take no unfair advantage by stealthy advance on the preoccupied scratcher.  He straddled, shook out his glossy ruff, and crowed shrilly.

The other rooster straightened up from his agricultural labors, and stared at this lone intruder on his family privacy.  He was a tall, rakish-looking fowl, whose erect carriage and lack of tail-feathers made him look like a spindle-shanked urchin as he towered there among the busy hens.

In order that there might be no mistake as to his belligerent intentions, P.T. crowed again.

The other replied with a sort of croupy hoarseness.

“Sounds like he was full to the neck with your garden-seeds,” commented Hiram.  “Well, he won’t ever eat no more, and that’s something to be thankful for.”

The game-cock, apparently having understood the word to come on, tiptoed briskly across the garden.  The other waited his approach, craning his long neck and twisting his head from side to side.

Reeves was now at the fence.

“I’ll bet ye ten dollars,” shouted Hiram, “that down goes your hen the first shuffle.”

“You will, hey?” bawled Reeves, sarcastically.  “Say, you didn’t bring them three shells and rubber pea that you used to make your livin’ with, did ye?”

The old showman gasped, and his face grew purple.  “I licked him twenty years ago for startin’ that lie about me,” he said, bending blazing glance on the Cap’n.  “Damn the expense!  I’m goin’ over there and kill him!”

“Wait till your rooster kills his, and then take the remains and bat his brains out with ’em,” advised the Cap’n, swelling with equal wrath.  “Look!  He’s gettin’ at him!”