“Lord, I don’t talk about cocking to females, Perry!” said Mr. Fitzjohn scornfully. “I’ll be there on Tuesday. What’s the main?”
“Sixteen.”
“Bad number. Don’t like an even set,” said Mr. Fitzjohn, shaking his head. “Half-past five, I suppose? I’ll meet you there.”
He was not a young gentleman who made a habit of punctuality, but his watch being, unknown to himself, twenty minutes ahead of the correct time, he arrived at the Cock-Pit Royal, in Birdcage Walk, on Tuesday evening just as the cocks were being weighed and matched. He joined Peregrine, and saw the grey taken out of his bag, and looked him over very knowingly. He admitted that he was of strong shape; closely inspected his girth; approved the beam of his leg; and wanted to know whose cock he was matched with.
“Farnaby’s brass-back. It was Farnaby who suggested I might enter my bird, but he’ll make that brass-back look like a dunghill cock, eh, Flood?”
The cocker put the grey back into his bag, and looked dubious. “I don’t know as I’d say just that, sir,” he answered. “He’s in good trim, never better, but we’ll see.”
“Don’t think much of your bag,” remarked Mr. Fitzjohn, who liked bright colours.
The cocker gave a slow smile. “‘There’ll come a good cock out of a ragged bag,’ sir,” he quoted. “But we’ll see.”
The two young men nodded wisely at the saw, and moved away to take up their places on the first tier of benches. Here they were joined by Mr. Farnaby, who squeezed his way to them, and after a slight altercation prevailed on a middle-aged gentleman in a drab coat to make room for him to sit down beside Peregrine. Behind them the benches were being rapidly filled, and higher still the outer ring of standing room was tightly packed with the rougher members of the crowd. In the centre of the pit was the stage, on which no one but the setters-on was allowed. This was built up a few feet from the ground, covered with a carpet with a mark in the middle, and lit by a huge chandelier hanging immediately above it.
The first fight, which was between two red cocks, only lasted for nine minutes; the second was between a black-grey and a red pyle, and there was some hard hitting in the pit, and a great deal of noisy betting amongst the spectators. During this and the next fight, which was between a duck-winged grey and a red pyle, Peregrine and Mr. Fitzjohn grew much excited, Mr. Fitzjohn betting heavily on the red’s chances, extolling his tactics, and condemning the grey for ogling his opponent too long. Peregrine in honour bound backed the grey to win, and informed Mr. Fitzjohn that crowing was not fighting, and nor was breaking away.