“I will back him in that declaration.”
Smith got up, opened the door and yelled: “Jay Bird, come here and defend yourself.”
Before one could say Jack Robinson twice, a beautiful game rooster—and there is nothing prettier—came flying to the house from the barn. His magnificent head, as keen as an arrow point, was red with life, and his alert brown eye sparkled with fire. His spurs were long and sharp and well set in a pair of splendid legs. His cold, steady eye gave him a fierce appearance; the calm, determined stare of never-failing courage, was what made adversaries quail before him.
“Come in, Jay Bird, and get on your master’s shoulder,” was the invitation extended. Black John was proud of his cock. He petted and groomed him daily.
“Jay Bird, they say you can be whipped,” said Smith, when the rooster lit upon his shoulder. “What about it?”
Flapping his wings, lifting his eagle-head, and crowing, Jay Bird seemed to say: “I can whip any rooster in the land.”
“A game rooster is proud, daring and fearless if he comes of the right stock,” asserted Black John. “Courageous men or dogs do not fight without an excuse, but the cock goes forth to hunt a foe. Two games will meet far from their own barnyards and fight to the death, when there is no provocation for a meeting, much less a fight. The bold, defiant spirit of their blood urges them on. The one hears the challenge of the other and accepts by going, running, flying and crowing, to meet him.
“Jay Bird is a bundle of superb courage, and I will pit him against any two-legged fowl.”
“I accept the challenge,” said Paddy. “Name the time and the place and I will be on hand with my bird. We shall put up $25 a side if you say so.”