It was the ninth battle and the score stood four for Smith and four for the Essleins. As the slim gaffs, grey and cruelly sharp, were being placed on the feathered gladiators for the last deadly joust, Smith called across the pit to John Esslein:
“Esslein,” he said, “no matter how this last battle may fall, I reckon I've convinced you and everybody looking on, that, just as I said, I've got the 'Esslein Games.' To show you that I know I have, and give you a chance for revenge as well, I'll make this last fight for $10,000 a cock. The main so far has been an even break, and neither of us has won or lost. The last battle decides the tie and wins or loses me $3,000. To make it interesting, I'll raise the risk both ways, if you're willing, just $7,000, and call the bundle ten. And,” concluded Smith, as he glanced around the pit, “there isn't a sport here but will believe in his heart, when I, a poor man, offer to make this last battle one for $20,000, that I know that, even if I'm against, I'm at least behind an 'Esslein Game.'”
“Make it for $10,000 a cock, then!” said John Esslein bitterly. “Whether I win or lose main and money too, I've already lost much more than both to-day.”
Then the fight began. The chickens were big and strong and quick and as dauntlessly savage as ospreys. And feather and size, eye, and beak and leg, they were the absolute counterparts of each other.
For ten minutes the battle raged. Either the spurred fencers had more of luck or more of caution than the others. Buckle after buckle occurred, and after ten minutes' fighting the two enemies still faced each other with angry, bead-like eyes, and without so much as a drop of blood spilled.
They fronted each other balefully while one might count seven. Their beaks travelled up and down as evenly as if moved by the same impulse. Then they clashed together.
This time,-as they drew apart, Smith's chicken fell upon its side, its right leg cut and broken well up toward the hip, with the bone pushing upward and outward through the slash of the gaff.