In the early eighties there drifted into Providence one Paddy Roark, an Irish artisan, from where no one ever knew. Paddy was a unique character and the people of the good old Presbyterian neighborhood gave him a cordial welcome. Just such a man was needed. At all times he was affable and jolly and made friends everywhere. He was a handy man--could do any sort of turn. It was “Paddy do this” and “Paddy do that.” If a farmer needed a painter, a carpenter, a brick mason, or what not, Paddy was the man. Truly, Paddy was “Dick and the wheel in any tight place.” If the boys and girls of Providence had a frolic or a dance he played the fiddle, or picked the banjo, or sang Irish songs. The good housewives of the community liked him, for he could make the kraut, salt the meat, cook fruit for preserves, make persimmon and locust beer, or take the honey from the bee hive. In fact, Paddy was an all-round citizen, and so long as he behaved himself the good people of the community did not worry about his mysterious past or the suddenness of his advent into that bailiwick. Little did they care, the descendants of the signers of the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence, if he had killed an Englishman or two in the old country. Paddy Roark belonged to the social circle of The Elms. He and Black John Smith were friends, but the Irishman, being a man of keen wit and cleverness, did not like the way the lord of the old Davis place towered above his fellows. There sprung up a rivalry between these popular idols. In a clash of intellects the man from the Emerald Isle outshone the native Tar Heel. In a test of physical strength they were pretty evenly matched. Paddy was the best boxer, but Black John could throw him down in a wrestle. Paddy was the only man in the Smith set that would challenge the “Chief of The Elms.” It was on a cold, drizzly day in September and the boys for several miles around had assembled under the Smith roof to discuss plans for the fall and winter. Black John sat in one corner and Paddy in the other, in front of a big log fire. There was a lull in the conversation. “A rooster is the gamest thing on earth,” said Smith. “I do not admit that without proof,” said Paddy. “The proof is at hand,” declared Smith. “Jay Bird, my dominecker game, is in the yard. He is the champion of the county and I will back him against the feathered kingdom. He carries a chip on his shoulder and challenges the world every time he crows. He can crow louder, shriller, oftener and longer than any chicken in seven states. I can make him come in here and fight you.” About that time the clarion call of a rooster was heard. “Listen!” shouted Black John. “He says ‘I can lick anything that wears feathers!’ “I will back him in that declaration.” Smith got up, opened the door and yelled: “Jay Bird, come here and defend yourself.”