Jim appeared just then, and turned out to be Taffy's old enemy, the
Whip, bearing the Squire's game-cock in a basket. He took it out; a
very handsome bird, with a hackle in which gold, purple and the
richest browns shone and were blended.

Sir Harry had picked up his bird and was heeling it with the long
steel spurs; a very delicate process, to judge by the time occupied
and the pucker on his good-tempered brow.

"Ready?" he asked at length.

Jim, who had been heeling the Squire's bird, nodded and the pair were
set down. They ruffled and flew at each other without an instant's
hesitation. The visitor, which five minutes before had been staring
at the carpet so foolishly, was prompt enough now. For a moment they
paused, beak to beak, eye to eye, furious, with necks outstretched
and hackles stiff with the rage of battle. They began to rise and
fall like two feathers tossing in the air, very quietly. But for the
soft whir of wings there was no sound in the room. Taffy could
scarcely believe they were fighting in earnest. For a moment they
seemed to touch--to touch and no more, and for a moment only--but in
that moment the stroke was given. The home champion fluttered down,
stood on his legs for a moment, as if nothing had happened, then
toppled over and lay twitching, as his conqueror strutted over him
and lifted his throat to crow.

Squire Moyle rose, clutching the corner of his chair. His mouth
opened and shut, but no words came. Sir Harry caught up his bird,
whipped off his spurs, and thrust him back into the bag. The old man