Mrs. Hiram Look, lately "Widder Snell," appearing as plump, radiant,
and roseate as a bride in her honeymoon should appear--her color
assisted by the caloric of a cook-stove in June--put her head out
of the buttery window and informed the inquiring Cap'n Aaron Sproul
that Hiram was out behind the barn.
"Married life seems still to be agreein' with all concerned,"
suggested Cap'n Sproul, quizzically. "Even that flour on your nose
is becomin'."
"Go 'long, you old rat!" tittered Mrs. Look. "Better save all your
compliments for your own wife!"
"Oh, I tell her sweeter things than that," replied the Cap'n,
serenely. With a grin under his beard, he went on toward the barn.
Smyrna gossips were beginning to comment, with more or less spite,
on the sudden friendship between their first selectman and Hiram Look,
since Look--once owner of a road circus--had retired from the road,
had married his old love, and had settled down on the Snell farm.
Considering the fact that the selectman and showman had bristled at
each other like game-cocks the first time they met, Smyrna wondered
at the sudden effusion of affection that now kept them trotting back
and forth on almost daily visits to each other.
Batson Reeves, second selectman of Smyrna, understood better than
most of the others. It was on him as a common anvil that the two of
them had pounded their mutual spite cool. Hiram, suddenly
reappearing with a plug hat and a pet elephant, after twenty years
of wandering, had won promptly the hand of Widow Snell, _nee_ Amanda
Purkis, whose self and whose acres Widower Reeves was just ready to
annex. And Hiram had thereby partially satisfied the old boyhood
grudge planted deep in his stormy temper when Batson Reeves had
broken up the early attachment between Hiram Look and Amanda Purkis.
As for First Selectman Sproul, hot in his fight with Reeves for
official supremacy, his league with Hiram, after an initial combat
to try spurs, was instant and cordial as soon as he had understood
a few things about the showman's character and purpose.
"Birds of a feather!" gritted Reeves, in his confidences with his
intimates. "An' old turkle-back of a sea-capt'in runnin' things in
this town 'fore he's been here two years, jest 'cause he's got cheek
enough and thutty thousand dollars--and now comes that old gas-bag
with a plug hat on it, braggin' of his own thutty thousand dollars,
and they hitch up! Gawd help Smyrna, that's all I say!"
And yet, had all the spiteful eyes in Smyrna peered around the corner
of the barn on that serene June forenoon, they must have softened
just a bit at sight of the placid peace of it all.
The big doors were rolled back, and "Imogene," the ancient elephant
whose fond attachment to Hiram had preserved her from the
auction-block, bent her wrinkled front to the soothing sunshine and
"weaved" contentedly on her slouchy legs. She was watching her master
with the thorough appreciation of one who has understood and loved
the "sportin' life."
Hiram was in shirt-sleeves and bareheaded, his stringy hair combed
over his bald spot. His long-tailed coat and plug hat hung from a
wooden peg on the side of the barn. In front of him was a loose square
of burlap, pegged to the ground at one edge, its opposite edge nailed
to the barn, and sloping at an angle of forty-five degrees.
As Cap'n Sproul rounded the corner Hiram had just tossed a rooster
in the air over the burlap. The bird came down flapping its wings;
its legs stuck out stiffly. When it struck the rude net it bounded
high, and came down again, and continued its grotesque hornpipe until
it finally lost its spring.
"I'm only givin' P.T. Barnum his leg-exercise," said Hiram,
recovering the rooster and sticking him under one arm while he shook
hands with his caller. "I don't expect to ever match him again in
this God-forsaken country, but there's some comfort in keepin' him
in trainin'. Pinch them thighs, Cap'n! Ain't they the wickin'?"
"I sh'd hate to try to eat 'em," said the Cap'n, gingerly poking his
stubby finger against the rooster's leg.
"Eat 'em!" snapped the showman, raking the horns of his long mustache
irritably away from his mouth. "You talk like the rest of these
farmers round here that never heard of a hen bein' good for anything
except to lay eggs and be et for a Thanksgivin' dinner." He held the
rooster a-straddle his arm, his broad hand on its back, and shook
him under the Cap'n's nose. "I've earnt more'n a thousand dollars
with P.T.--and that's a profit in the hen business that all the
condition powders this side of Tophet couldn't fetch."
"A thousand dollars!" echoed Cap'n Sproul, stuffing his pipe. He
gazed at P.T. with new interest. "He must have done some fightin'
in his day."
"Fight!" cried the showman. He tossed the rooster upon the burlap
once more. "Fight! Look at that leg action! That's the best
yaller-legged, high-station game-cock that ever pecked his way out
of a shell. I've taken all comers 'twixt Hoorah and Hackenny, and
he ain't let me down yet. Look at them brad-awls of his!"
"Mebbe all so, but I don't like hens, not for a minit," growled the
first selectman, squinting sourly through his tobacco-smoke at the
dancing fowl.
Hiram got a saucer from a shelf inside the barn and set it on the
ground.
"Eat your chopped liver, P.T.," he commanded; "trainin' is over."
He relighted his stub of cigar and bent proud gaze on the bird.
"No, sir," pursued the Cap'n, "I ain't got no use for a hen unless
it's settin', legs up, on a platter, and me with a carvin'-knife."
"Always felt that way?" inquired Hiram.
"Not so much as I have sence I've been tryin' to start my garden this
spring. As fur back as the time I was gittin' the seed in, them hens
of Widder Sidene Pike, that lives next farm to mine, began their
hellishness, with that old wart-legged ostrich of a rooster of her'n
to lead 'em. They'd almost peck the seeds out of my hand, and the
minit I'd turn my back they was over into that patch, right foot,
left foot, kick heel and toe, and swing to pardners--and you couldn't
see the sun for dirt. And at every rake that rooster lifts soil enough
to fill a stevedore's coal-bucket."
"Why don't you shoot 'em?" advised Hiram, calmly.
"Me--the first s'lectman of this town out poppin' off a widder's
hens? That would be a nice soundin' case when it got into court,
wouldn't it?"
"Get into court first and sue her," advised the militant Hiram.
"I donno as I've ever said it to you, but I've al'ays said it to close
friends," stated the Cap'n, earnestly, "that there are only three
things on earth I'm afraid of, and them are: pneumony, bein' struck
by lightnin', and havin' a land-shark git the law on me. There ain't
us'ly no help for ye."
He sighed and smoked reflectively. Then his face hardened.
"There's grown to be more to it lately than the hen end. Have you
heard that sence Bat Reeves got let down by she that was Widder
Snell"--he nodded toward the house--"he has been sort of caught on
the bounce, as ye might say, by the Widder Pike? Well, bein' her close
neighbor, I know it's so. And, furdermore, the widder's told my wife,
bein' so tickled over ketchin' him that she couldn't hold it to
herself. Now, for the last week, every time that old red-gilled
dirt-walloper has led them hens into my garden, I've caught Bat
Reeves peekin' around the corner of the widder's house watchin' 'em.
If there's any such thing as a man bein' able to talk human language
to a rooster, and put sin and Satan into him, Reeves is doin' it.
But what's the good of my goin' and lickin' him? It'll mean law.
That's what he's lookin' for--and him with that old gandershanked
lawyer for a brother! See what they done to you!"
Hiram's eyes grew hard, and he muttered irefully. For cuffing Batson
Reeves off the Widow Snell's door-step he had paid a fat fine,
assessed for the benefit of the assaulted, along with liberal costs
allowed to Squire Alcander Reeves.
"They can't get any of my money that way," pursued the Cap'n. "I'd
pay suthin' for the privilege of drawin' and quarterin' him, but a
plain lickin' ain't much object. A lickin' does him good."
"And it's so much ready money for that skunk," added the showman.
He cocked his head to one side to avoid his cigar smoke, and stared
down on P.T. pecking the last scraps of raw liver from the saucer.
"I understand you to say, do I," resumed Hiram, "that he is shooing
them hens--or, at least, condonin' their comin' down into your garden
ev'ry day?"
"I run full half a mile jest before I came acrost to see you, chasin'
'em out," said the Cap'n, gloomily, "and I'll bet they was back in
there before I got to the first bars on my way over here."
P.T., feeling the stimulus of the liver, crooked his neck and crowed
spiritedly. Then he scratched the side of his head with one toe, shook
himself, and squatted down contentedly in the sun.
"In the show business," said Hiram, "when I found a feller with a
game that I could play better 'n him, I was always willin' to play
his game." He stuck up his hand with the fingers spread like a fan,
and began to check items. "A gun won't do, because it's a widder's
hens; a fight won't do, because it's Bat Reeves; law won't do, because
he's got old heron-legged Alcander right in his family. Now this
thing is gittin' onto your sperits, and I can see it!"
"It is heiferin' me bad," admitted the Cap'n. "It ain't so much the
hens--though Gawd knows I hate a hen bad enough--but it's Bat Reeves
standin' up there grinnin' and watchin' me play tag-you're-it with
Old Scuff-and-kick and them female friends of his. For a man that's
dreamed of garden-truck jest as he wants it, and never had veg'tables
enough in twenty years of sloshin' round the world on shipboard, it's
about the most cussed, aggravatin' thing I ever got against. And
there I am! Swear and chase--and northin' comin' of it!"
Hiram clenched his cigar more firmly in his teeth, leaned over
carefully, and picked up the recumbent P.T.
He tucked the rooster under his arm and started off.
"Let's go 'crost back lots," he advised. "What people don't see and
don't know about won't hurt 'em, and that includes your wife and mine.
"It won't be no kind of a hen-fight, you understand," Hiram chatted
as they walked, "'cause that compost-heap scratcher won't last so
long as old Brown stayed in heaven. For P.T., here, it will be jest
bristle, shuffle, one, two--brad through each eye,
and--'Cock-a-doodle-doo!' All over! But it will give you a chance
to see some of his leg-work, and a touch or two of his fancy
spurrin'--and then you can take old Sculch-scratcher by the legs and
hold him up and inform Bat Reeves that he can come and claim property.
It's his own game--and we're playin' it! There ain't any chance for
law where one rooster comes over into another rooster's yard and gets
done up. Moral: Keep roosters in where the lightnin' won't strike
'em."
When they topped Hickory Hill they had a survey of Cap'n Sproul's
acres. Here and there on the brown mould of his garden behind the
big barn were scattered yellow and gray specks.
"There they be, blast 'em to fury!" growled the Cap'n.
His eyes then wandered farther, as though seeking something familiar,
and he clutched the showman's arm as they walked along.
"And there's Bat Reeves's gray hoss hitched in the widder's
dooryard."
"Mebbe he'll wait and have fricasseed rooster for dinner," suggested
Hiram, grimly. "That's all his rooster'll be good for in fifteen
minutes."
"It would be the devil and repeat for us if the widder's rooster
should lick--and Bat Reeves standin' and lookin' on," suggested the
Cap'n, bodingly.
Hiram stopped short, looked this faltering faint-heart all over from
head to heel with withering scorn, and demanded: "Ain't you got
sportin' blood enough to know the difference between a high-station
game-cock and that old bow-legged Mormon down there scratchin' your
garden-seeds?"
"Well," replied the Cap'n, rather surlily, "I ain't to blame for what
I don't know about, and I don't know about hens, and I don't want
to know. But I do know that he's more'n twice as big as your rooster,
and he's had exercise enough in my garden this spring to be more'n
twice as strong. All is, don't lay it to me not warnin' you, if you
lose your thousand-dollar hen!"
"Don't you wear your voice out tryin' to tell me about my business
in the hen-fightin' line," snapped the showman, fondly "huggling"
P.T. more closely under his arm. "This is where size don't count.
It's skill. There won't be enough to call it a scrap."
They made a detour through the Sproul orchard to avoid possible
observation by Louada Murilla, the Cap'n's wife, and by so doing
showed themselves plainly to any one who might be looking that way
from the widow's premises. This was a part of the showman's plan.
He hoped to attract Reeves's attention. He did. They saw him peering
under his palm from the shed door, evidently suspecting that this
combination of his two chief foes meant something sinister. He came
out of the shed and walked down toward the fence when he saw them
headed for the garden.
"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!"
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.
"It's my idee of a rooster-fight," retorted Reeves. In his triumph
he was not unwilling to banter repartee with the hateful Hiram. "You
fellers with what you call sportin' blood"--he sneered the
words--"come along and think nobody else can't do anything right but
you. You fetch along cat-meat with feathers on it"--he pointed at
the vanquished P.T.--"and expect it to stand any show with a real
fighter." Now he pointed to the Widow Pike's rooster sauntering away
with his harem about him. "He ain't rid' around with a circus nor
followed the sportin' life, and he's al'ays lived in the country and
minded his own business, but he's good for a whole crateful of your
sportin' blooders--and so long as he licks, it don't make no
difference how he does it."
The personal reference in this little speech was too plain for Hiram
to disregard.
His hard eyes narrowed, and hatred of this insolent countryman blazed
there. The countryman glared back with just as fierce bitterness.
"Mebbe you've got money to back your opinion of Widder Pike's hen
there?" suggested the showman. "Money's the only thing that seems
to interest you, and you don't seem to care how you make it."
Reeves glanced from the maimed P.T., gasping on Hiram's arm, to the
victorious champion who had defeated this redoubtable bird so easily.
His Yankee shrewdness told him that the showman had undoubtedly
produced his best for this conflict; his Yankee cupidity hinted that
by taking advantage of Hiram's present flustered state of mind he
might turn a dollar. He glanced from Hiram to Cap'n Sproul, standing
at one side, and said with careless superiority:
"Make your talk!"
"I've got five hundred that says I've got the best hen."
"There ain't goin' to be no foolishness about rules and sport, and
hitchin' and hawin', is there? It's jest hen that counts!"
"Jest hen!" Hiram set his teeth hard.
"Five hundred it is," agreed Reeves. "But I need a fortni't to collect
in some that's due me. Farmin' ain't such ready-money as the circus
bus'ness."
"Take your fortni't! And we'll settle place later. And that's all,
'cause it makes me sick to stand anywhere within ten feet of you."
Hiram strode away across the fields, his wounded gladiator on his
arm.
And, as it was near dinner-time, Cap'n Sproul trudged into his own
house, his mien thoughtful and his air subdued.
On his next visit to Hiram, the Cap'n didn't know which was the most
preoccupied--the showman sitting in the barn door at Imogene's feet,
or the battered P.T. propped disconsolately on one leg. Both were
gazing at the ground with far-away stare, and Hiram was not much more
conversational than the rooster.
The next day Hiram drove into the Sproul dooryard and called out the
Cap'n, refusing to get out of his wagon.
"I shall be away a few days--mebbe more, mebbe less. I leave time
and place to you." And he slashed at his horse and drove away.
X
It was certainly a queer place that Cap'n Sproul decided upon after
several days of rumination. His own abstraction during that time,
and the unexplained absence of Hiram, the bridegroom of a month, an
absence that was prolonged into a week, caused secret tears and
apprehensive imaginings in both households.
Hiram came back, mysterious as the Sphinx.
Cap'n Sproul arranged for a secret meeting of the principals behind
his barn, and announced his decision as to place.
"The poor-farm!" both snorted in unison. "What--"
"Hold right on!" interrupted the Cap'n, holding up his broad palms;
"it can't be in _his_ barn on account of his wife; it can't be in
_my_ barn on account of my wife. Both of 'em are all wrought up and
suspectin' somethin'. Some old pick-ed nose in this place is bound
to see us if we try to sneak away into the woods. Jim Wixon, the
poor-farm keeper, holds his job through me. He's square, straight,
and minds his own business. I can depend on him. He'll hold the stakes.
There ain't another man in town we can trust. There ain't a place
as safe as the poor-farm barn. Folks don't go hangin' round a
poor-farm unless they have to. It's for there the ev'nin' before the
Fourth. Agree, or count me out. The first selectman of this town can't
afford to take too many chances, aidin' and abettin' a hen-fight."
Therefore there was nothing else for it. The principals accepted
sullenly, and went their ways.
The taciturnity of Hiram Look was such during the few days before
the meeting that Cap'n Sproul regretfully concluded to keep to his
own hearthstone. Hiram seemed to be nursing a secret. The Cap'n felt
hurt, and admitted as much to himself in his musings.
He went alone to the rendezvous at early dusk. Keeper Wixon, of the
poor-farm, had the big floor of the barn nicely swept, had hung
lanterns about on the wooden harness-pegs, and was in a state of great
excitement and impatience.
Second Selectman Reeves came first, lugging his crate from his
beach-wagon. The crate held the Widow Pike's rooster. His nomination
had his head up between the slats, and was crowing regularly and
raucously.
"Choke that dam fog-horn off!" commanded the Cap'n. "What are ye
tryin' to do, advertise this sociable?"
"You talk like I was doin' that crowin' myself," returned Reeves,
sulkily. "And nobody ain't goin' to squat his wizen and git him out
of breath. Hands off, and a fair show!"
Hiram Look was no laggard at the meeting. He rumbled into the yard
on the box of one of his animal cages, pulled out a huge bag containing
something that kicked and wriggled, and deposited his burden on the
barn floor.
"Now," said he, brusquely, "business before pleasure! You've got the
stakes, eh, Wixon?"
"In my wallet here--a thousand dollars," replied the keeper, a little
catch in his voice at thought of the fortune next his anxious heart.
"And the best hen takes the money; no flummery, no filigree!" put
in Reeves.
Hiram was kneeling beside his agitated bag, and was picking at the
knots in its fastening. "This will be a hen-fight served up Smyrna
style," he said, grimly. "And, as near as I can find out, that style
is mostly--scrambled!"
"I've got a favor to ask," stammered Wixon, hesitatingly. "It don't
mean much to you, but it means a good deal to others. Bein' penned
up on a poor-farm, with nothin' except three meals a day to take up
your mind, is pretty tough on them as have seen better days. I'll
leave it to Cap'n Sproul, here, if I ain't tried to put a little
kindness and human feelin' into runnin' this place, and--"
Hiram was untying the last knot. "Spit out what you're drivin' at,"
he cried bluntly; "this ain't no time for sideshow barkin'. The big
show is about to begin."
"I want to invite in the boys," blurted Wixon. And when they blinked
at him amazedly, he said:
"The five old fellers that's here, I mean. They're safe and mum, and
they're jest dyin' for a little entertainment, and it's only kindness
to them that's unfortunate, if you--"
"What do you think this is, a livin'-picture show got up to amuse
a set of droolin' old paupers?" demanded Hiram, with heat.
"Well, as it is, they suspect suthin'," persisted Wixon. "All they
have to do to pass time is to suspect and projick on what's goin'
on and what's goin' to happen. If you'll let me bring 'em, I can shet
their mouths. If they don't come in, they're goin' to suspect suthin'
worse than what it is--and that's only human natur'--and not to blame
for it."
The two selectmen protested, official alarm in their faces, but Hiram
suddenly took the keeper's side, after the manner of his impetuous
nature, and after he had shrewdly noted that Reeves seemed to be most
alarmed.
"I'm the challenger," he roared. "I've got something to say. Bring
'em, Wixon. Let 'em have a taste of fun. I may wind up on the poor-farm
myself. Bring 'em in. There's prob'ly more sportin' blood in the
paupers of this town than in the citizens. Bring 'em in, and let's
have talkin' done with."
In a suspiciously short time Wixon led in his charges--five hobbling
old men, all chewing tobacco and looking wondrously interested.
"There!" said Hiram, an appreciative glint in his eyes. "Nothin' like
havin' an audience, even if they did come in on passes. I've never
given a show before empty benches yet. And now, gents"--the old
spirit of the "barker" entered into him--"you are about to behold
a moral and elevatin' exhibition of the wonders of natur'. I have
explored the jungles of Palermo, the hills of Peru Corners, the
valleys of North Belgrade, never mindin' time and expense, and I've
got something that beats the wild boy Tom and his little sister Mary.
Without takin' more of your valuable time, I will now present to your
attention"--he tore open the bag--"Cap'n Kidd, the Terror of the
Mountains."
The wagging jaws of the old paupers stopped as if petrified. Keeper
Wixon peered under his hand and retreated a few paces. Even doughty
Cap'n Sproul, accustomed to the marvels of land and sea, snapped his
eyes. As for Reeves, he gasped "Great gorlemity!" under his breath,
and sat down on the edge of his crate, as though his legs had given
out.
The creature that rose solemnly up from the billowing folds of the
bagging had a head as smooth and round as a door-knob, dangling,
purple wattles under its bill, and breast of a sanguinary red, picked
clean of feathers. There were not many feathers on the fowl, anyway.
Its tail was merely a spreading of quills like spikes. It was propped
on legs like stilts, and when it stretched to crow it stood up as
tall as a yard-stick.
"Let out your old doostrabulus, there!" Hiram commanded.
"That ain't no hen," wailed his adversary.
"It's got two legs, a bill, and a place for tail-feathers, and that's
near enough to a hen for fightin' purposes in this town--accordin'
to what I've seen of the sport here," insisted the showman. "The
principal hen-fightin' science in Smyrna seems to be to stand on t'
other hen and peck him to pieces! Well, Reeves, Cap'n Kidd there ain't
got so much pedigree as some I've owned, but as a stander and pecker
I'm thinkin' he'll give a good, fair account of himself."
"It's a gum-game," protested Reeves, agitatedly, "and I ain't goin'
to fight no ostrich nor hen-hawk."
"Then I'll take the stakes without further wear or tear," said Hiram.
"Am I right, boys?" A unanimous chorus indorsed him. "And this here
is something that I reckon ye won't go to law about," the showman
went on, ominously, "even if you have got a lawyer in the family.
You ketch, don't you?"
The unhappy second selectman realized his situation, sighed, and
pried a slat off the crate. His nomination was more sanguine than
he. The rooster hopped upon the crate, crowed, and stalked out onto
the barn floor with a confidence that made Reeves perk up courage
a bit.
Cap'n Kidd showed abstraction rather than zeal. He was busily engaged
in squinting along his warty legs, and at last detected two or three
objects that were annoying him. He picked them off leisurely. Then
he ran his stiff and scratchy wing down his leg, yawned, and seemed
bored.
When the other rooster ran across and pecked him viciously on his
red expanse of breast, he cocked his head sideways and looked down
wonderingly on this rude assailant. Blood trickled from the wound,
and Reeves giggled nervously. Cap'n Sproul muttered something and
looked apprehensive, but Hiram, his eyes hard and his lips set,
crouched at the side of the floor, and seemed to be waiting
confidently.
Widow Pike's favorite stepped back, rapped his bill on the floor
several times, and then ran at his foe once more. A second trail of
blood followed his blow. This time the unknown ducked his knobby head
at the attacker. It looked like a blow with a slung-shot. But it
missed, and Reeves tittered again.
"Fly up and peck his eye out, Pete!" he called, cheerily.
It is not likely that Peter understood this adjuration,
notwithstanding Cap'n Sproul's gloomy convictions on that score in
the past. But, apparently having tested the courage of this enemy,
he changed his tactics, leaped, and flew at Cap'n Kidd with spurring
feet.
Then it happened!
It happened almost before the little group of spectators could gasp.
Cap'n Kidd threw himself back on the bristling spines of his tail,
both claws off the floor. Peter's spurring feet met only empty air,
and he fell on the foe.
Foe's splay claws grabbed him around the neck and clutched him like
a vise, shutting off his last, startled squawk. Then Cap'n Kidd
darted forward that knobby head with its ugly beak, and tore off
Peter's caput with one mighty wrench.
"'Tain't fair! It's jest as I said it was! 'Tain't square!" screamed
Reeves.
But Hiram strode forward, snapping authoritative fingers under
Wixon's nose. "Hand me that money!" he gritted, and Wixon, his eyes
on the unhappy bird writhing in Cap'n Kidd's wicked grasp, made no
demur. The showman took it, even as the maddened Reeves was clutching
for the packet, tucked it into his breast pocket, and drove the second
selectman back with a mighty thrust of his arm. The selectman
stumbled over the combatants and sat down with a shock that clicked
his teeth. Cap'n Kidd fled from under, and flew to a high beam.
"He ain't a hen!" squalled Reeves.
At that moment the barn door was opened from the outside, and through
this exit Cap'n Kidd flapped with hoarse cries, whether of triumph
or fright no one could say.
The lanterns' light shone on Widow Sidenia Pike, her face white from
the scare "Cap'n Kidd's" rush past her head had given her, but with
determination written large in her features.
She gazed long at Reeves, sitting on the floor beside the defunct
rooster. She pointed an accusatory finger at it.
"Mr. Reeves," she said, "you've been lyin' to me two weeks, tryin'
to buy that rooster that I wouldn't sell no more'n I'd sell my first
husband's gravestun'. And when you couldn't git it by lyin', you
stole it off'm the roost to-night. And to make sure there won't be
any more lies, I've followed you right here to find out the truth.
Now what does this mean?"
There was a soulful pause.
"Lie in small things, lie in big!" she snapped. "I reckon I've found
ye out for a missabul thing!"
Hiram, standing back in the shadows, nudged Cap'n Sproul beside him,
and wagged his head toward the open door. They went out on tiptoe.
"If he wants to lie some more, our bein' round might embarrass him,"
whispered Hiram. "I never like to embarrass a man when he's
down--and--and her eyes was so much on Reeves and the rooster I don't
believe she noticed us. And what she don't know won't hurt her none.
But"--he yawned--"I shouldn't be a mite surprised if another one of
Bat Reeves's engagements was busted in this town. He don't seem to
have no luck at all in marryin' farms with the wimmen throwed in."
The Cap'n didn't appear interested in Reeves's troubles. His eyes
were searching the dim heavens.
"What do you call that thing you brought in the bag?" he demanded.
"Blamed if I know!" confessed Hiram, climbing upon his chariot. "And
I'm pretty well up on freaks, too, as a circus man ought to be. I
jest went out huntin' for suthin' to fit in with the sportin' blood
as I found it in this place--and I reckon I got it! Mebbe 'twas a
cassowary, mebbe 'twas a dodo--the man himself didn't know--said
even the hen that hatched it didn't seem to know. 'Pologized to me
for asking me two dollars for it, and I gave him five. I hope it will
go back where it come from. It hurt my eyes to look at it. But it
was a good bargain!" He patted his breast pocket.
"Come over to-morrow," he called to the Cap'n as he drove away. "I
sha'n't have so much on my mind, and I'll be a little more sociable!
Listen to that bagpipe selection!"
Behind them they heard the whining drone of a man's pleading voice
and a woman's shrill, insistent tones, a monotony of sound flowing
on--and on--and on!