“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 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 anything 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 only 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.
The cocks had been fighting for about ten minutes when the brass-back, who had till now adopted more defensive tactics than the grey, suddenly rushed in, striking and slashing in famous style. The grey responded gallantly, and Mr. Fitzjohn cried out: “The best matched pair I ever saw! There they go, slap for slap! I’ll lay you any odds the grey wins! No, by God, he’s down! Ha, spurs fast again!”
The setters-on having secured their birds, and the brass-back’s spurs being released, both were again freed. The grey seemed to be a little dazed, the brass-back hardly less so. Both were bleeding from wounds, and neither seemed anxious to close again with his opponent. They stayed warily apart, ogling each other while the timekeeper kept the count, and fifty being reached before either showed any disposition to continue fighting, setting was allowed. The setters-on each took up his bird and brought him to the centre of the arena, and placed him beak to beak with the other. The grey was the first to strike, a swift, punishing blow that knocked the brass-back clean away.
A sudden commotion arose amongst the spectators. Mr. Farnaby sprang up, shouting “A foul! A foul! The grey was squeezed!”
Someone called out: “Nonsense! No such thing! Sit down!”
Peregrine swung around to stare at Farnaby. “He was not squeezed! I was watching the whole time, and I’m ready to swear my man did no more than set him!”
The setters-on, pending the referee’s decision, had each caught his bird, a lucky circumstance for the brass-back, who seemed to have been badly cut up by the last blow. The referee gave it in favour of the grey, and Mr. Fitzjohn said testily: “Of course the grey was not squeezed! Sit down, man, sit down! Hey, no wonder your cock’s shy! I believe the grey got his eye in that last brush. Perry, that’s a rare bird of yours! We’ll match him with mine one day, down at my place. Ha, that finishes it! The brass-back’s a blinker now—or dead. Dead, I think. Well done, Perry! Well done!”
Mr. Farnaby turned with an ugly look on his face. “Ay, well done indeed! Your cock was craven, and was squeezed to make him fight.”
“Here, I say, Farnaby, learn to take your losses!” said Mr. Fitzjohn with strong disapproval.
Peregrine, a gathering frown on his boyish countenance, lifted a hand to hush his friend, and fixed his eyes on Farnaby’s. “You can’t know what you’re saying. If there was a fault the referee must have seen it.”
“Oh,” said Farnaby, with a sneer, “when rich men fight their cocks referees can sometimes make mistakes.”
It was not said loud enough to carry very far, but it brought Peregrine to his feet in a bound. “What!” he cried furiously. “Say that again if you dare!”
Though no one but those immediately beside Farnaby could have heard his words, it was quite apparent to everyone by this time that an altercation was going on, and the rougher part of the gathering at once began to take sides, some (who had lost their money on the brass-back) loudly asserting that the grey had been squeezed, and others declaring with equal fervour that it had been a fair fight. Above the hubbub a shrill Cockney voice besought Peregrine to darken Mr. Farnaby’s daylights—advice of which he did not seem to stand in much need, for he was clenching his fists very menacingly already.
Mr. Fitzjohn, who had also heard Farnaby’s last speech, tried to get between him and Peregrine, saying in a brisk voice: “That’s enough of this foolery. You’re foxed, Farnaby. Ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Oh, I’m foxed, am I?” said Farnaby, keeping his eyes on Peregrine’s. “I’m not so foxed but what I can see when a bird’s pressed to make him fight, and I repeat, Sir Peregrine Taverner, that money can do queer things if you have enough of it.”
“Oh, damn!” said Mr. Fitzjohn, exasperated. “Pay no heed to him, Perry.”
Peregrine, however, had not waited for this advice. As Mr. Fitzjohn spoke he drove his left in a smashing blow to Farnaby’s face, and sent that gentleman sprawling over the bench. There were a great many cheers, a shout of “A mill, a mill!” some protests from the quieter members of the audience; and the man in the drab coat, across whose knees Mr. Farnaby had fallen, demanded that the Watch should be summoned.
Mr. Farnaby picked himself up, and showed the house a bleeding nose. The same voice which had counselled Peregrine to strike shouted gleefully: “Drawn his cork! Fib him, guv’nor! Let him have a bit of home-brewed!”
Mr. Farnaby held his handkerchief to his nose and said: “My friend will call on yours in the morning, sir! Be good enough to name your man!”
“Fitz?” said Peregrine curtly, over his shoulder.
“At your service,” replied Mr. Fitzjohn.
“Mr. Fitzjohn will act for me, sir,” said Peregrine, pale but perfectly determined.
“You will hear from me, sir,” promised Farnaby thickly, and strode out, still holding his reddened handkerchief to his nose.
Chapter X
Mr. Fitzjohn, breakfasting in his lodgings in Cork Street next morning, wore an unusually sober expression on his face, and when his man came in to inform him that a gentleman had called he got up from the table with a sigh and a shake of his head.
The gentleman’s card, which Mr. Fitzjohn held between his finger and thumb, told him very little. The name was unknown to him, and the address, which was a street in the labyrinth lying between Northumberland House and St. James’s Square, did not impress him favourably.
Captain Crake was ushered into the room, and Mr. Fitzjohn, with a shrewdness belied by his cherubic countenance, instantly decided that his military rank was self-bestowed. He was displeased. He had been brought up by a careful father with a nice regard for etiquette, and one glance at Captain Crake was sufficient to convince him that he was not one whom any gentleman would desire to have for a second in an affair of honour. The first duty of a second was to seek a reconciliation; it was evident that Captain Crake had no such thought in mind. He came only to arrange a place and a time of meeting, and to choose on behalf of his principal pistols for weapons.
To this Mr. Fitzjohn agreed, but when the Captain, assuming Mr. Farnaby to have been the injured party, stipulated for a range of twenty-five yards he unhesitatingly refused to consent to it. Such a range must be all in favour of the more experienced duellist, and however many wafers Peregrine might be able to culp at Manton’s Gallery, Mr. Fitzjohn felt reasonably certain that he had not before been engaged in an actual duel.