Carelessly, and
without apparently having noticed one another, the roosters walked
about picking at the grass but gradually getting nearer to one
another. When they got within a yard of each other they became more
wary, though still feigning carelessness, until one seeing an
opportunity, sprang into the air and struck at the head of the other
with the curved wire nails attached to his legs in place of spurs. The
other dodged and counter attacked and the action became general.
Using beak, wings and spurs they jumped, flew and struck at one
another as opportunity afforded, until Joffre got a strangle hold on
Von Kluck and buried his spurs again and again into the prostrate body
until he finally struck a vital spot and the combat was over. Then,
stretching himself, the victor flapped his wings once or twice as if
to say "bring on the next" and went on picking at the grass as before.
It was the first time that I had ever seen a cock fight and I hope it
will be the last. The concentration on the faces of those men as they
watched the cruel "sport" and the play of expression passing over them
was intensely interesting to me; you could almost tell what some of
them were saying within their minds and it was pleasant to know that
to the great majority of them the game was as repulsive as it was to
us. It was obviously unsuited to the taste of our new country and men
who might themselves be dead in the course of a week or two.
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