'Well, after their dinners one day, grandfeythor, bein' fairly full up wi' beer, ye ken, begins sneering at all toon's folk settin' up as sportsmen. "It stan's to reason," says he, "if a man's forbears have never handled a gun, nor shot nowt mevvies[2] but a hoody crow or a seagull on a holiday, that the bairns canna shoot either, for it's bred an' born in a man--it's part o' his birthright, like a fam'ly jool," says he; "a heditary gift, the same as a proper knowledge o' horseflesh, fightin' cocks, greyhounds an' aal; money won't buy it, an' it's no use argifyin' aboot it, for it's a fact, and the will o' Providence," says he. 'Noo, when grandfeythor got on aboot Providence, most folks, I b'lieve, used to say nowt, but Smithson--that was the chap's name--he gies a sort o' tee-hee at this oot loud, which would be the same as if you or me were to say, "It's just d----d nonsense." 'Well, there was a tarr'ble tow-row at this, grandfeythor as red as a bubbly-jock an' swearin' like a drunken fishwife, and Smithson as polite as a counter-jumper wiv his "pardon me's" and "pray be seated, sirs"--aal to no effect. 'At the finish, when matters were quieted doon a bit, Smithson offers to back hissel' at a shootin' match wi' grandfeythor for £1,000 a side, an' also at a cockin' match--"a long main" it was to be--twenty battles at £100 the "battle" and £1,000 the "main." 'Well, aal the comp'ny thought it was just a bit swagger on the part o' Smithson, an' that when the time came he'd just cry off an' pay forfeit, for the match was to take place in three weeks' time, and never a cock had Smithson in his place ava, whereas grandfeythor, he had a rare breed, the best i' the county--mixed Rothbury an' Felton--an' the old Felton breed was the one the King o' England win his brass ower formerly. 'The time comes, an' the comp'ny is aal assembled i' the cock-pit at Bridgeton, grandfeythor, full o' beans an' bounce, backin' hissel' like a prize-fighter, takin' snuff an' handin' roon' the box to his friends, an' sayin' noo an' again, "Where's that dam' fellow Smithson?" 'Well, the clock on the old tower was just on the stroke of ten, when in saunters Smithson, cool as a ha'penny ice, an' behind him, in green and gold liv'ries, come ten flunkies each wi' two big bags behind his shoulder, an' in each bag a tarr'ble fine fightin' cock. 'Where he'd gathered them nobody knew save old Ned Stevison--an ancient old cock-fighter o' Bridgeton, who loved cocks more than many a man his missus. "The Moonlight Breed" he called them, but they had a strain of the famous old Lord Derby's breed i' them, and were blood uns to the bone. 'Some half dozen were Stevison's own, but the remainder 'twas said he had stolen from awa doon Sooth for Smithson, an' anyways "Captain Moonlight" was his nickname ever afterwards. 'Well, they weighs aal the cocks; from six to six and a half pounds their weight was to be, an' the fight commences.