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The Earl nodded, and went out with his friend. Mr Jackson turned his attention to the new-comers, matched Mr Fitzjohn at singlestick with one of his instructors, and stood critically by while Peregrine, stripped to the waist, hit out at a punchball. He presently took the eager young man on in a sparring match, gave Mr Fitzjohn a turn, and dismissed them both to cool off.
‘Oh, damn it, why can’t I pop in a good one over your guard?’ panted Mr Fitzjohn. ‘I try hard enough!’
‘You don’t try quick enough, Mr Fitzjohn. You want to look to your footwork more. I shan’t let you hit me till you deserve to.’
‘What about me?’ asked Peregrine, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.
‘You’re shaping, sir, but you must keep your head more.You rattle in too hard. Go along to the Fives Court next Tuesday for the sparring exhibition, and you’ll see some very pretty boxing there.’
‘I can’t,’ said Peregrine, draping a towel round his shoulders. ‘I’m going to the Cock-Pit. The Gentlemen of Yorkshire against the Gentlemen of Kent, for a thousand guineas a side, and forty guineas each battle. You should come, Jackson. I’m fighting a Wednesbury grey – never been beaten!’
‘Give me a red pyle!’ said Mr Fitzjohn. ‘I don’t fancy any of your greys, or blues, or blacks. Red’s the only colour for your true game-cock.’
‘Why, good God, Fitz, that’s the greatest piece of nonsense ever I heard! There’s nothing to touch a Wednesbury grey!’
‘Except a red pyle,’ said Mr Fitzjohn obstinately.
‘There are good cocks of all colours,’ interposed Jackson. ‘I hope yours wins his fight, Mr Peregrine. I’d come, but I’ve promised to help Mr Jones with the arrangements at the Fives Court.’
The two young men went off to the changing-room together, and forgot their difference of opinion in splashing water over themselves, and being rubbed down by the attendant. But as Peregrine put on his shirt again he recollected the argument sufficiently to invite Mr Fitzjohn to come to the Cock-Pit Royal on Tuesday and see the match. Mr Fitzjohn agreed to it very readily, and was only sorry that from the circumstances of his being Sussex-born he could not enter his own red pyle for a battle with Peregrine’s grey. ‘What’s his weight?’ he asked. ‘Mine turns the scale of four pounds exactly.’
‘Mine’s just over,’ replied Peregrine. ‘Three years old, and the sharpest heel you ever saw. My cocker has had him preparing these six weeks. He’s resting him now.’ He bethought him of something. ‘By the by, Fitz, if you should chance to meet my sister you need not mention it to her. She don’t above half like cocking, and I haven’t told her I’ve had my bird brought down from Yorkshire.’
‘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 wa
s 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.
‘Breaking away! You’ve never seen a red pyle break away!’ said Mr Fitzjohn indignantly. ‘There! Look at him! He’s fast in the grey; they’ll have to draw his spurs out.’
The fight lasted for fifteen minutes, both birds being badly mauled; but in the end the red sent the grey to grass, dead, and Mr Fitzjohn shook a complete stranger warmly by the hand, and said that there was nothing to beat a red pyle.
‘Good birds, I don’t deny, but I’ll back my brass-back against any that was ever hatched,’ said Mr Farnaby, overhearing. ‘You’ll see him floor Mr Taverner’s grey, or my name’s not Ned Farnaby.’
‘Well, you’d better be thinking of a new one then, for our fight’s coming on now,’ retorted Peregrine.
‘Pooh, your bird don’t stand a chance!’ scoffed Farnaby.
The setters-on had the cocks in the arena by this time, and Mr Fitzjohn, critically looking them over, declared there to be very little to choose between them. They were well matched; their heads a full scarlet; tails, manes, and wings nicely clipped; and spurs very long and sharp, hooking well inwards. ‘If any thing I like Taverner’s bird the better of the two,’ pronounced Mr Fitzjohn. ‘He looks devilish upright, and I fancy he’s the largest in girth. But there ain’t much in it.’
The birds did not ogle each other for long; they closed almost at once, and there was some slashing work which made the feathers fly. The brass-back was floored, but came up again, and toed the scratch. Both birds knew how to hold, and their tactics were cunning enough to rouse the enthusiasm of the crowd. The betting was slightly in favour of the grey, which very much delighted Peregrine, and made Mr Fitzjohn shake his head, and say that saving his own red pyle he did not know when he had seen a cock he liked better. Mr Farnaby did not say anything, but looked at Peregrine sideways once or twice and thrust out his under-lip.
