‘Well, they weighs aal the cocks; from six to six and a half pounds their weight was to be, an’ the fight commences.
‘Bob Stevison fought Smithson’s cocks for him, an’ grandfeythor fought his own, kneelin’ doon on the cock-pit floor wiv his coat off so as to handle them the better.
‘The first two or three battles grandfeythor wins easy, Stevison using his warst cocks at the first, d’ye see, oot o’ craft mevvies to get longer odds i’ the bettin’, so that at one time grandfeythor was five battles to two to the good; a bit later it was eight all, an’ the excitement was immense, bets flyin’ aboot like snowflakes at Christmas.
‘Then Stevison oots wiv a beauty—a perfect picture it was ov a fighter; eyes like a furnace at night, liftin’ his legs like a Derby winner, wings an’ tail clipped short—aal glossy wi’ health an’ shinin’ like mahogany.
‘Stevison runs him up an’ doon the floor to heat his blood, an’ tweaks a feather doon from his rump—that was a clever trick he had, to madden his cock just before the start—an’ holds him ready for the battle.
‘Then grandfeythor, he oots wiv his champion cock—“Stingo,” he called him—an old favouryte ov his, a gran’ bird too, six years old, an’ a little past his prime mevvies, though he’d never lost a battle in his life.
‘As soon as they sees each other “Stingo” gies a bit triumphant crow, an’ leans forward from his master’s hand to try an’ nip hold o’ the other wiv his beak. The other says nowt, just looks at him wi’ fiery eyes red hot wi’ murder, an’ as soon as ever his feet touch the sawdust bends low, then springs straight for Stingo, drivin’ wiv his spur o’ shinin’ steel right for his heart.
‘Just i’ the nick o’ time Stingo leaps i’ the air to meet him; there’s a “click, click,” “click, click,” as o’ daggers crossin’, an’ pantin’ from the shock, doon sinks either bird to the ground.
‘Stevison’s mouth was tremblin’ like a bairn’s as he took his favouryte up, for there was blood on his lower breast feathers, but Stingo wasn’t touched ava, an’ grandfeythor, puffed oot wi’ pride, claps a bit mair o’ the fam’ly property on to his champion.
‘It was a bit lesson for the other cock; he was just as determined as ever, but a bit quieter like; round an’ round Stingo he goes like a prize-fighter, clickin’ in noo an’ again as he thought he saw his openin’, an’ when they grappled tegither wi’ their beaks, though his comb was almost torn in two, he hammered for Stingo’s eye as a blacksmith hammers on his anvil.