As the hour hand moved toward ten the lord of The Elms and the Irish carpenter faced each other, the one holding a rooster and the other, the mouth of a bag.
“Clear out! Stand back! Give the gentlemen room!” shouted the officer of the day.
Paddy did not seem to be in any hurry. No one knew what his bag contained for all was quiet inside.
“That’s the deadest rooster ever,” yelled someone in derision. “He’s asleep. Wake up, birdie, day’s breaking!”
Paddy made no reply. He seemed satisfied with himself and his “boird.”
“All’s ready!” shouted the umpire.
“When I say ‘three’ let them go!”
Paddy took hold of the bottom of the sack and made ready to empty the contents.
The spectators at this juncture pressed against the ropes and stood on tiptoe to see Paddy’s bird. When the word was given, Jerry, a large, Muscovy drake, web-footed and clumsy, dropped into the arena. The friends of Paddy were struck speechless, and the supporters of Jay Bird laughed boisterously, treating the affair as a joke, but Jay Bird, and Jerry were serious, and went to sparring at each other.
Paddy, too, was in earnest; knowing his champion he said: “He’s all roight, boys. All hell can’t thrip him.”