“Maybe Mr. Jeffray would like a shy,” he said, with a leer, while the hinds crowded round with grinning faces.
Jeffray glanced at the bird that was staggering about on a broken leg.
“Do you call this sport, men?” he asked, hotly.
The cobbler stared and appeared puzzled. The ring of brutish faces gathered closer.
“There be’nt no harm in it, yer honor,” he said.
Jeffray promptly pulled out his purse and offered to buy the cobbler’s birds. The boors stared at one another, and began to murmur.
“Begging yer honor’s pardon,” quoth the mender of shoes, “these birds of mine be’nt for buying.”
“You prefer to torture them, Sturtevant, eh?”
The man scratched his head and glanced at his friends for justification.
“There always be cock-throwing on Shrove-Tuesdays, Mr. Jeffray,” he said. “Parson Sugg has never said aught agen it.”