was attached to a clipboard.
Icarus was seventeen months old and weighed 4:03 pounds. He had maintained this weight fairly well for the past three months, within two ounces either way. For a cock that wasnât on a conditioning diet, this even weight indicated that the bird was healthy enough. He was fed cracked corn twice a day, barley water, and purged twice a week with a weak solution of one grain of calomel and one grain of bicarbonate of soda dissolved in water.
The flirting and exercising sections on the chart were empty. I tapped them with a forefinger and looked questioningly at Mr. Middleton.
âI havenât done any conditioning, Frank. But as you can see, Iâve watched his weight closely. He should go to 4:05 maybe, or 4:07 at mostâunder training. Thatâs my opinion, anyway,â he qualified his estimate. For a full minute, Ed looked through the fence at the cock, and I returned the weight chart to the hook on the wall inside the shack.
âDo you want this cock, Frank?â Ed asked fiercely, when I rejoined him.
What could I say? I stretched out the fingers of my left hand and made a sawing motion higher up, at the shoulder.
âOkay, Frank. You can have him for five hundred dollars. I told Martha last night youâd come home with me to buy the last of my chickens. So thatâs the price. Pay me and take him!â
The old cock fancier dug his hands into his pockets and walked away from me, unable, for the moment, to look me in the face.
He knew perfectly well I didnât have five hundred dollars, and he also knew that the cock wasnât worth that much. For fifty dollars apiece I could purchase country-walked gamecocks, with authenticated bloodlines, from almost any top breeder in the United States. And fifty dollars was a good price. Iâve seen Ace cocks sell for a hundred, and sometimes for one hundred and fiftyâbut never for five hundred.
No breeder wants to sell any of his fighters to another cocker he may meet at the same pit someday. The cock he sells or gives away may possibly kill some of his own birds in a pitting. On the other hand, the breeders who raise game fowl to sell would be thought ridiculous if they attempted to peddle an untested cock for five hundred dollars!
The answer was simple. Ed Middleton didnât want to sell Icarus. He was looking for an out to keep his pet. After I left he could tell Martha I had made an offer and that he had promised to sell it to me. Anybody else who came around to buy it could be legitimately refused. âIâd be glad to sell it,â he could truthfully say to a prospective buyer, âbut Iâve promised the cock to Frank Mansfield. Sorryâ¦â
The old bastard was trying to renege on his promise to his wife. Knowing that I didnât have his price and was unlikely to pay it if I did, he planned on keeping his pet cock until it died of old age. One thing I did know, if I showed up with the money, he would have to sell it. And I wanted that bird. I seemed to sense somehow that this was the turning point in my run of bad luck at the pitsâ¦Little Icky.
Standing by an orange tree, Ed jerked a piece of fruit from a lower limb and threw it in a looping curve over the trees. I could hear the mushy thud of the orange as it landed deep in the grove. I crossed the space separating us with an outstretched hand.
Ed grimly accepted my promise to buy his cock with a strong handshake.
While Mr. Middleton made a mixture of barley water, I leaned against the door of the feed shack and finished my cigarette. Somehow, I was going to get the money to buy that cock. Now my impending trip to Jacksonville had a sharpened point to it. If Doc Riordan had any money at all, I intended to get it.
Ed measured out the cracked corn and fed his pet, the two battered Gray roosters, and the old hen. Although I could feel some sympathy for Martha in not wanting her husband out traveling the cockfight circuits,
Icarus was seventeen months old and weighed 4:03 pounds. He had maintained this weight fairly well for the past three months, within two ounces either way. For a cock that wasnât on a conditioning diet, this even weight indicated that the bird was healthy enough. He was fed cracked corn twice a day, barley water, and purged twice a week with a weak solution of one grain of calomel and one grain of bicarbonate of soda dissolved in water.
The flirting and exercising sections on the chart were empty. I tapped them with a forefinger and looked questioningly at Mr. Middleton.
âI havenât done any conditioning, Frank. But as you can see, Iâve watched his weight closely. He should go to 4:05 maybe, or 4:07 at mostâunder training. Thatâs my opinion, anyway,â he qualified his estimate. For a full minute, Ed looked through the fence at the cock, and I returned the weight chart to the hook on the wall inside the shack.
âDo you want this cock, Frank?â Ed asked fiercely, when I rejoined him.
What could I say? I stretched out the fingers of my left hand and made a sawing motion higher up, at the shoulder.
âOkay, Frank. You can have him for five hundred dollars. I told Martha last night youâd come home with me to buy the last of my chickens. So thatâs the price. Pay me and take him!â
The old cock fancier dug his hands into his pockets and walked away from me, unable, for the moment, to look me in the face.
He knew perfectly well I didnât have five hundred dollars, and he also knew that the cock wasnât worth that much. For fifty dollars apiece I could purchase country-walked gamecocks, with authenticated bloodlines, from almost any top breeder in the United States. And fifty dollars was a good price. Iâve seen Ace cocks sell for a hundred, and sometimes for one hundred and fiftyâbut never for five hundred.
No breeder wants to sell any of his fighters to another cocker he may meet at the same pit someday. The cock he sells or gives away may possibly kill some of his own birds in a pitting. On the other hand, the breeders who raise game fowl to sell would be thought ridiculous if they attempted to peddle an untested cock for five hundred dollars!
The answer was simple. Ed Middleton didnât want to sell Icarus. He was looking for an out to keep his pet. After I left he could tell Martha I had made an offer and that he had promised to sell it to me. Anybody else who came around to buy it could be legitimately refused. âIâd be glad to sell it,â he could truthfully say to a prospective buyer, âbut Iâve promised the cock to Frank Mansfield. Sorryâ¦â
The old bastard was trying to renege on his promise to his wife. Knowing that I didnât have his price and was unlikely to pay it if I did, he planned on keeping his pet cock until it died of old age. One thing I did know, if I showed up with the money, he would have to sell it. And I wanted that bird. I seemed to sense somehow that this was the turning point in my run of bad luck at the pitsâ¦Little Icky.
Standing by an orange tree, Ed jerked a piece of fruit from a lower limb and threw it in a looping curve over the trees. I could hear the mushy thud of the orange as it landed deep in the grove. I crossed the space separating us with an outstretched hand.
Ed grimly accepted my promise to buy his cock with a strong handshake.
While Mr. Middleton made a mixture of barley water, I leaned against the door of the feed shack and finished my cigarette. Somehow, I was going to get the money to buy that cock. Now my impending trip to Jacksonville had a sharpened point to it. If Doc Riordan had any money at all, I intended to get it.
Ed measured out the cracked corn and fed his pet, the two battered Gray roosters, and the old hen. Although I could feel some sympathy for Martha in not wanting her husband out traveling the cockfight circuits,
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