t a lad's heart, has Mister Paul," said the landlord of the
Flying Horse.

"Ey, he's a fair fatch," echoed little Tom o' Dint.

Leaving Peter to shake himself dry of the liquor that dripped from him
in froth, the noisy gang reeled down the road, the yelping dogs
careering about them, and the cocks squawking with the hugs they
received from the twitching arms of the men convulsed with laughter.

At the head of the Vale of Newlands there is a clearing that was made by
the lead miners of two centuries ago. It lies at the feet of an
ampitheater of hills that rise peak above peak, and die off depth beyond
depth. Of the old mines nothing remains but the level cuttings in the
sides of the fells, and here and there the washing-pits cut out of the
rock at your feet. Fragments of stone lie about, glistening with veins
of lead, but no sound of pick or hammer breaks the stillness, and no
cart or truck trundles over the rough path. It is a solitude in which
one might forget that the world is full of noise.

To this spot Drayton and his cronies made their way. At one of the old
washing troughs they drew up, and sat in a circle on its rocky sides.
They had come for a cock fight. It was to be the bantam (carried by Natt
and owned by his master) against all comers. Drayton and the blacksmith
were the setters-on. The first bout was between the bantam and Lang
Geordie's ponderous black Spanish. Geordie's bird soon squawked
dolorously, and made off over the heads of the derisive spectators,
whereupon Geordie captured it by one of its outstretched wings, and
forthwith screwed its neck. Then came John Proudfoot's silver and black,
and straightway steel gaffs were affixed to the spurs. When the cocks
felt their feet they crowed, and then pecked the ground from side to
side. An exciting struggle ensued. Up and down, over and under, now
beating the breast, now trailing the comb, now pecking at the gills. And
the two men at opposite sides of the pit--the one in his shirt-sleeves
rolled up to the elbows, the other in his sporting plaid--stooped with
every lunge and craned their necks at every fall, and bobbed their heads
with every peck, their eyes flashing, their teeth set.

At one moment they drew off their birds, called for the files, and
sharpened up the spurs. Later on they seized the cocks by the necks,
shouted for the pitch-pot and patched up the bleeding combs. The birds
were equally matched, and fought long. At last their strength eb