Again there were curses； followed by the derisive sound of laughter。 I lit a cigarette； took my notebook out of my shirt pocket； and wrote the essential information concerning Sandspur on a fresh sheet of paper。 A few minutes later Bill Sanders came outside and joined me beneath the tree。 I handed him my roll of seven hundred and fifty dollars and he counted it。 Bill put the money in his trousers and watched my fingers。 I held up four fingers on my left hand and my right forefinger。
〃I doubt if I can get you four to one； Frank。〃 Bill shook his head dubiously。 〃Your reputation is too damn good。 You could show up with a battered dunghill； and if these redneckers thought you fed it； they'd bet on it。 But I'll try。〃
If anybody could get good odds for me； Sanders could； and I knew he would certainly try。 When I was discharged from the Army； I had spent two months in Puerto Rico with Sanders； living in the same hotel； and we had attended mains at all the best game clubs…San Juan； Mayaguez； Ponce； Arecibo； and Aibonito。 I had steered Sanders right on the betting； after I had gotten accustomed to the fighting techniques of the Spanish slashers； and both of us had returned to Miami with our wallets full of winnings。 Bill Sanders was not a professional cockfighter like myself； he was a professional gambler。 He had lost his share of the money he won in Puerto Rico at the Miami horse and dog tracks。 A little bald guy with a passion for high living； he lived very well when he had money and even better when he had none。 He was that kind of a man； and a good friend。 I took Sandspur out of his coop and pointed out the 〃cracked〃 beak。 Bifi whistled softly and his blue eyes widened。
〃If that bifi breaks off； you've had it； Frank。〃 He shrugged。 〃But that mutilated boko should get me the fourto…one odds。〃
Sanders hit me lightly on the shoulder with his fist and returned to the pit。
I held Sandspur with my left hand； filled my mouth with smoke； and blew the smoke at his head。 He clucked angrily； shaking his head。 Blowing tobacco smoke at a cock's head irritates it to a fighting pitch； and I was smoking a mild； mentholated cigarette。 I enveloped the cock's head with one more cloud of smoke and returned him to his coop。 Too much smoke could make a cock dizzy。
I opened my gaff case and removed two sets of heels。 I put a pair of short spurs in my left shirt pocket and a pair of long jaggers in my right shirt pocket。 After shutting my gaff case； I picked up the coop and case and entered the pit。
There were only about sixty spectators inside； but this was a fairly good crowd for September。 The Florida cockfighting season didn't start officially until Thanksgiving Day； when an opening derby was held in Lake Worth。 And Belle Glade isn't the most accessible town in Florida。 The canvas walls successfully prevented any breeze from getting into the pit； and it was as hot inside as a barbecue grill。
I recognized a couple of Dade County fanciers and nodded acknowledgments to them when they greeted me by name。 There was a scattering of Belle Glade townspeople； two gamblers from Miami who probably owned the blonde and the convertible； Burke and his two handlers； and two pregnant women I had seen around the trailer camp。 The remainder of the crowd was made up from the migrant agricultural workers' camp on the other side of town。
The cockpit was made of rough boards； sixteen inches high； and about eighteen feet in diameter。 The pit was surrounded on three sides by bleachers； four tiers high。 Under an open beach umbrella on the fourth side of the pit； Mr。 Middleton sat at a card table with Captain Mack。 Behind the table there was a blackboard。 I noted that Jack Burke had won both of the short…entry derbies； the first； four…one； and the second； three…two。 That accounted for the glum expressions on the faces of the two Dade County breeders。 Not only had they made a poor showing； their onehundred…dollar entry fees； less Captain Mack's ten percent； had wound up in Burke's pocket as prize money。
Two men in the bleachers I didn't know called out my name and wished me good luck。 I waved an acknowledgment to them； and joined Ed Middleton and Captain Mack。 I removed Sandspur from the coop and handed the slip of paper to Mr。 Middleton。 Jack Burke and his handler； Ralph Hansen； came over。 The handler was carrying Little David。 Mr。 Middleton produced a coin。
〃Name it； gentlemen；〃 he said。
〃Let Mr。 Mansfield call it；〃 Burke said indifferently。
I tapped my forehead to indicate 〃heads。〃 Mr。 Middleton tossed the half dollar into the air and let it land with a thump on the card table。 Heads。 I reached into my left shirt pocket； pulled out the short gaffs； and held them out in my open palm。 They were hand…forged steel gaffs； an inch and a quarter in length。 Burke nodded grimly and turned to his handler。
〃All right； Ralph；〃 he said bitterly。 〃Short spurs； but set'em low。〃
Burke was a long gaff man； but I preferred the short heels。 Sandspur was a cutter and fought best with short gaffs。 Little David was used to long three…inch heels。 Winning the toss had given Sandspur a slight advantage over Little David。
The cockfight between Sandspur and Little David was an extra hack； and I had not； of course； been required to post any entry fee。 However； Mr。 Middleton examined both cocks with minute attention。 He was acting as judge and referee and had received at least a minimum fee of one hundred and fifty dollars； plus expenses； from Captain Mack。 The judge of a cockfight has to be good； and Ed Middleton was one of the best referees in the entire South。 His word in the pit was law。 There is no appeal from a cockfight judge's decision。 As sole judge…referee； Ed Middleton's jurisdiction enpassed spectator betting as well。 The referee's job has always been the most important at a cockfight。 As every cocker knows； for example； honest Abe Lincoln was once a cockpit referee during his lawyer days in Illinois。 Hard and fair in his decisions； and as impersonal as doom； Ed Middleton was fully aware of the traditional responsibilities of the cockpit referee。
After pleting his examination of the cocks to see that they were not soaped； peppered or greased and that they were trimmed fairly； Mr。 Middleton stepped back to the table。
〃Southern Conference rules； gentlemen？〃 he asked。
〃What else？〃 Burke said。
I nodded my head in agreement。
〃Forty…minute time limit； or kill？〃
I closed my fist； jerked my thumb toward the ground。
〃What else？〃 Burke said。
Captain Mack held Sandspur while Jack Burke examined him； and I took a close look at Little David。 Burke's chicken was a purebred O'Neal Red and as arrogant as a sergeantmajor in the Foreign Legion。 Although I had never seen Little David fight before； I had followed his previous pittings in The Southern Cockfighter； and I knew that he liked aerial fighting。 But so did Sandspur fight high in the air； and my cock was used to short gaffs。 The three additional wins Little David had over Sandspur didn't worry me when I had such an advantage。
Burke tapped me on the shoulder and grinned。 〃If I'd known your chicken had him a cracked bill； I'd have given you better odds。〃
I shrugged indifferently and sat down on the edge of the pit to arm my cock。 I opened my gaff case； removed a bottle of typewriter cleaning solvent and cleaned Sandspur's spur stumps。 Most cockers use plain alcohol to clean spurs； but typewriter solvent is fast…drying and； in my opinion； removes the dirt easier。 After fitting tight chamois…skin coverings over both spurs； I slipped the metal sockets of the short heels over the covered stumps and tied them with waxed string； setting them low and a trifle to the outside。 The points of the tapered heels were as sharp as needles； and a man has to be careful when he arms a cock。 I had a puckered puncture scar on my right forearm caused by a moment of carelessness seven years before； and I didn't want another one。
The betting had already started； but the crowd quieted down when Mr。 Middleton stepped into the pit。 They listened attentively to his announcement。
〃This is an extra hack； gentlemen；〃 he said loudly。 〃Little David versu