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Updated: July 3, 2025
"That's your idee of sport, is it?" demanded Hiram, stooping to wipe his bloody hand on the grass. "It's my idee of a rooster-fight," retorted Reeves. In his triumph he was not unwilling to banter repartee with the hateful Hiram. "You fellers with what you call sportin' blood" he sneered the words "come along and think nobody else can't do anything right but you.
While Angus, being in the power of the three hundred and sixty-fifth day, trotted demurely into the meshes of Fate. Fate was posing as another lad, a lad of charm and adventure. "C'm on, Ang," proposed Fate in nasal American; "Evans's chauffeur's havin' a rooster-fight in the garage. Hurry up c'm on lots of fun."
"Ye tried to kill a thousand-dollar bird by a skin-game, and I'll have it out of your hide." Reeves pulled a pole out of the fence. "Don't ye come across here," he gritted. "I'll brain ye! It was your own rooster-fight. You put it up. You got licked. What's the matter with you?" A grin of pure satisfaction curled under his beard. "You never heard of true sport. You don't know what it means.
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