P.T. put his head close to the ground, his ring of neck-feathers glistening in the sun, then darted forward, rising in air as he did so.  The other rooster, who had been awaiting his approach, stiffly erect, ducked to one side, and the game-cock went hurtling past.

“Like rooster, like master!” Hiram yelled, savagely.  “He’s a coward.  Why don’t he run and git your brother, Alcander, to put P.T. under bonds to keep the peace?  Yah-h-h-h!  You’re all cowards.”

The game-cock, accustomed to meet the bravery of true champions of the pit, stood for a little while and stared at this shifty foe.  He must have decided that he was dealing with a poltroon with 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.