The last Saturday in October was the day, and Bald Knob, near McAlpine’s creek, the place for the meet. Long before the appointed hour a crowd began to gather from three counties. Men came twenty miles to witness the fight. The woods that surrounded the open field in which the main was to take place were alive with horses and mules, and while the beasts of burden whinnied and brayed their owners discussed the approaching event. The mystery that surrounded Paddy Roark and his fowl had excited the quiet citizens of Providence as they had not been excited since the days of the Ku Klux Klan. John Smith, himself, looked pale and confused. Could he have done so gracefully, he would have crawfished, but it was too late to think of such a thing. He had to stand to the rack. Bright and early he was at the right place. Jay Bird had crowed until he was hoarse. He knew that something was in the wind and, from the attention he received, that he was to play a part. Hundreds of people called at his cage to see him. He was in fine form and looked every inch a fighter. Paddy Roark, who had not been in his usual haunts for several days, had not shown up. The friends of Smith were saying that the Irishman had fluked, but Paddy had backers aplenty, who assured one and all that he would be on time. Fifteen minutes before the hour arrived Paddy was not in sight. At ten of ten a shout broke on the eastern outskirts of the mob. Paddy, riding a gray mule, came galloping over the hill, from towards Matthews, carrying a sack over his shoulder. As he dismounted from his nag an outburst of applause greeted him. It was, “Hurrah, for Paddy Roark, and his bird!” “Come on with your critter, whatever it be,” responded the Smithites, “and Jay Bird will knock the filling out of him!” At this time the entire hillside was covered with a surging, wild-eyed human mass, each person seeking to get where he or she could see. Above the tumult and the shouting, the shrill cry of Jay Bird could be heard, asserting, “I can whip any cock in the land.” Roark was literally mobbed by his friends, who asked: “Paddy, have you brought your rooster?” “What kind of a beast is he?” “Can he do Jay Bird?” “We’re betting on him.” “Fetch him out, the time is most up.” In the midst of this turmoil and chaos Paddy Roark was cool, calm and deliberate. He smoked his pipe, smiled and told the boys that they might stake all they had on “Jerry.” His mule tied, Paddy started for the battle-ground with his tow sack on his back; he would not show his bird to any one, but the bulk in one corner of the bag was encouraging. His supporters were cheering and singing, “We’ll hang Jay Bird on a sour apple tree.” As the hour hand moved toward ten the lord of The Elms and the Irish carpenter faced each other, the one holding a rooster and the other, the mouth of a bag. “Clear out! Stand back! Give the gentlemen room!” shouted the officer of the day.