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Ed refilled my cup； set the pot back on the stove； and paced up and down on the shiny terrazzo floor。 He wore an old pair of blue bib overalls and an expensive； embroidered short…sleeved sport shirt。 The bottoms of the overalls were tucked into a pair of ten…inch； well…oiled engineer boots。 His great paunch stretched the middle of the overalls tight； but the bib on his chest flapped loosely as he walked。
The second cup of coffee seemed hotter than the first； and I was forced to sip it slowly。 Ed snapped his fingers impatiently； pushed open the back door； and said over his shoulder； 〃e on； Frank。 We can have breakfast later； like I told you already。〃
I gulped down the remainder of the coffee and followed him outside to the patio。 The sun was just rising； and the upper rim could be seen through the trees。 The tops of the orange trees across the pond were dipped in molten； golden…green fire。 The oranges on the darker green lower limbs of the trees looked as if they had been painted on。 A mist rose from the tiny lake like steam rising from a pot of water just before it begins to boil。 Ed Middleton sat down in the center of the little skiff tied to the concrete pier； and fitted the oars into the locks。 I sat forward in the prow。
〃Untie the line； Frank； and let's cast off。〃
Mr。 Middleton rowed across the lake…all forty yards of it。 It would have been less trouble to take the path that circled the pond； but if he wanted to use the skiff； it didn't make any difference to me。
When we reached the other side of the pond； I jumped out； held the skiff steady for Mr。 Middleton； and then both of us pulled the boat onto dry land。 There was a narrow path through the grove； and I trailed the old man for about five hundred yards until we reached his chicken walks。 There was a flat； well…hidden clearing in the grove； and about a dozen coop walks； each separated by approximately twenty yards。 The walks were eight feet tall； about ten feet wide by thirty feet in length； with the tops and sides covered with chicken wire。 The baseboards were two feet high； and painted with old motor oil to keep down the mite population。
Seeing the empty walks reminded me of my own farm in Ocala； although I had a better setup for coop…walked birds than Ed Middleton。 At one time； many years before； long before he had converted his land to orange trees； he had had the ideal setup for a country…walked rooster。 A pond； gently rolling terrain； and enough trees for the chickens to choose their own limbs for roosting。 We walked down the row of walks to the end coop。 As the rooster crowed； Ed turned around with a proud expression and pointed to the cock。
If there is anything more beautiful than the sight of a purebred gamecock in the light of early morning I do not know what it is。 This fighting cock of Ed's was the most brilliantly colored chicken I had ever seen； and I've seen hundreds upon hundreds of chickens。
Middleton had devoted sixteen years and countless generations of game fowl to developing the famous Middleton Gray； and there were traces of the Gray in the cock's shawl and broad； flat chest。 But the cock was a hybrid of some kind that I couldn't place or recognize。 He walked proudly to the fence and tossed his head back and crowed； beating the tips of his long wings together。 The tips of his wings were edged with vermilion。 The crow of a fighting cock is strong and deep and makes the morning sounds of a mon dunghil barnyard rooster sound puny in parison。
The same flaming color that tipped his wings was repeated in his head feathers and thighs； but his remaining feathers； including the sweep of his high curving tail； were a luminous peacock blue。 Ed was planning…or had planned…to keep him for a brood cock； because his b and wattles hadn't been clipped for fighting。 His lemon beak was strong； short and evenly met。 His feet and legs were as orange and bright as a freshly painted bridge。
The floor of the cock's private walk was thickly covered with a mixture of finely ground oyster shells and wellgrated charcoal； essential ingredients for a fighter's diet。 The oyster shells were for lime content； and the charcoal for digestion； but against this salt…and…pepper background； the cock's colorful plumage was emphasized。
Unfortunately； coloring is not the essential factor for a winning gamecock。 Good blood first； know…how in conditioning； and a good farm walk are the three essentials a pit bird needs to win。 I knew that thirty years of cock…breeding knowledge had found its way into that cock。 I could see it in every feather； and his good blood was assured by the pleased smile on Ed Middleton's thin lips。
〃Except for a couple of battered Grays and an old Middleton hen I've kind of kept around for a pet； this is the only cock I've got left。 I've never pitted him； and he's overdue； but I was afraid to lose him。 Not really； Frank。 I know damned well he can outhit any other cock in the South！〃
I agreed with him； at least in theory。 I spread my arms； grinned； and shook my head with admiration。 Ed nodded sagely with self…satisfaction； and I didn't blame him。 A flush slowly enveloped his features until his entire face was as red as his bulbous nose。
〃He's got a pretty damned fancy handle； Frank；〃 Ed said。 〃I call him Icarus。 You probably remember the old legend from school。 There was a guy named Daedalus； who had a son named Icarus。 Anyway； these two…Greeks they were…got tossed into jail； and Daedalus made a pair of wings out of wax for his boy to escape。 This kid； Icarus； put on the wings and flew so damned high he reached the sun and the wings melted on him。 He fell to the ground and was killed。 No man has ever flown so high before or since； but； anyway； that's the handle I hung on the chicken。 Icarus。〃
Ed Middleton cracked his knuckles and clomped away from the walk and entered the feed shack。 I gripped the chicken wire with my fingers and turned my attention to Icarus。 For a rugged character like Ed Middleton； the highbrow name and the story that went with it were fairly romantic； I thought。 Most cockers who fight a lot of cocks don't get around to naming them in the first place。 A metal leg band with the cock's weight and owner number usually suffices for identification。 Of course； a favorite brood cock； or a bird that has won several battles； is frequently named。 But I went along with Ed all the way。 As far as looks were concerned the fancy name fitted the chicken to a T。 However； if I had owned the bird； I would have called him Icky； and kept the private name to myself。
I entered the feed shed； dipped into the open sack of cracked corn in the corner； and picked out a dozen fat grains。 I returned to the cock's walk； opened the gate and entered。 As the cock watched me with his head to one side I lined up the grains of corn on the ground about six inches apart。 The cock marched toward me boldly； eating as he came； and pecked the remaining grain of corn out of my outstretched palm。 He wasn't a man fighter。 Ed had probably spent a good many hours talking to the cock and gently handling him。 I picked Icarus up with both hands； holding him underhanded； and examined the cock's legs and feet。
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