The old man turned and rang the bell.
“Tell Jim to fetch in the red cock,” he shouted to the wall-eyed footman—who must have been waiting in the corridor, so promptly he appeared.
“And Jim won’t be long about it either,” whispered Honoria. She had come forward quietly, and stood at Taffy’s elbow.
Sir Harry shook a finger at her and laid it on his lips. But the old Squire did not hear. He sat glum, pulling a whisker and keeping a sour eye on the bird, which was strutting about in rather foolish bewilderment at the pink peonies on the carpet.
“I’m giving you every chance,” he grumbled at length.
“Oh, as for that,” Sir Harry replied, equably, “have it out in the yard, if you please, on your own dunghill.”
“No. Indoors is bad enough.”
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.