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Mrs。 Bernice Hungerford and her nephew。 This was several months ago。 I don't know if they're ing…neither woman has written or wired me。 I don't care。 Well； I won't lie。 I DO care。 If they e； help me entertain them。 I'll be handling most of the time； and you 'll have to give them some attention for me。 Neither woman has seen a cockfight before。 My fiancée's name is Mary Elizabeth Gaylord 。 。 。
I looked over the message； which had taken two sheets of tablet paper； and then passed it to Omar。 He scanned it slowly； folded the two sheets； put them carefully in his shirt pocket and entered his bedroom。
He slammed the door behind him。
I wanted to damn Omar's sensitive soul； but I couldn't。 The custom of the cockpit wasn't my doing； but I felt ashamed。 To dictate a person's wearing apparel is a violation of every human right； but I had been forced to tell my partner about the custom or he wouldn't have been allowed through the gate。
After fifteen minutes had passed； and Omar still didn't reappear； I got out of my chair and knocked softly on his door。
〃I'll be out in a minute；〃 he called out。 〃Fix yourself a drink！〃
I measured three ounces of bourbon into a six…ounce glass。 Every time I wrote a note of any kind； I always felt that I was circumventing my vow in an underhanded way； but I was sorry I hadn't written a more detailed explanation about the suit business。 But I needn't have worried。
Two drinks later the bedroom door opened。 I set my glass on the table； grinned at my partner and shook my head in disbelief。
Omar had cut his beard off square across the bottom with a pair of scissors； and evenly trimmed the sides。 His newly cropped beard was as stiff as the spade it resembled。 His heavy black moustache had been bed to both sides； and the ends were twisted into sharp points。 The white smiling teeth in the dark nest of his inky beard were like a glint of lightning in a dark cloud。 He wore a pearl…gray homburg over his bushy black hair； a dark gray double…knit suit； a white shirt and cordovan shoes。 Hanging out for two or three inches below his beard； a shimmering gray silk necktie was clipped to his shirt by a black onyx tie bar。 He looked like a wealthy Greek undertaker。
〃I was saving this costume as a surprise for you tomorrow；〃 Omar said with a pleased laugh。 〃My new suit arrived from my New York tailor three days ago。 How do I look？〃
I clasped my hands over my head like a boxer； and shook them。
〃Do you know what makes my beard so stiff？〃 Omar said； as he mixed a drink at the table。 〃Pommade Hongroise。 And just in case you don't know what that means； it's imported moustache wax from France。〃
Omar added more whiskey to my glass。
〃You Southerners don't have a cartel on manners； Frank。 It may e as a shock to you； partner； but I even know the correct tools to use at a formal dinner。〃 He raised his glass。 〃A toast； Mr。 Mansfield！〃
I grinned and clinked my glass against his。
〃To the All…American cockfighters； the English…Polish team of Mansfield and Baradinsky！ Gentlemen； gamblers； dudes and cocksmen； each and every one！〃
We drank to that。
We left Ocala at three o'clock； but it was almost two in the afternoon before we reached Milledgeville。 I should have traded my old pickup in for a newer truck； but I had never gotten around to it。 For Omar； trailing me all the way； the slow rate of speed on the highway must have been maddening。
When we reached Milledgeville； I waved for Omar to follow me out； and drove on through without stopping。 Milledgevile isn't much of a city…a boy's military academy； a girl's college and a female insane asylum…but it's a pretty little town with red cobblestoned streets lined with shade trees。
Once we were out of town and drawing closer to the cockpit； I didn't mind driving so slowly because I liked the familiar scenery。 During the summer； the highway would be bordered on both sides with solid masses of blackberry bushes draped over the barbed…wire fences。 In the middle of March； the fields were iron…colored and bare。 The tall Georgia slash pines were deep in rust…colored needles。 The sky was a watercolor blue； and tiny tufts of white clouds were arranged on this background like a dotted…swiss design。 The sun was smaller in March； but the weather wasn't cold。 The clear air was sharp； tangy and stimulating； without being breezy。
Like Omar； in his new double…knit suit； I was dressed up； and we both had a place to go。 I wore a blue gabardine suit that I had had for two years； but it was fresh from the cleaners。 Well in advance of the tourney； I had ordered a white cattleman's Town and Country snap…brim hat from Dallas； and a new pair of black jodhpur boots from the Navarro Brothers； in El Paso。 For the past seven nights I had shined and buffed the new boots until they gleamed like crystal。 I wore yellow socks with my suit； and I had paid forty dollars in Miami Beach for my favorite yellow silk necktie； with its pattern of royal blue； hand…painted gamecocks。
I wasn't dressed conservatively； but a lot of my fans would be at the tourney； and they expected me to look dashing and colorful。 Press representatives from all five game fowl magazines would be present； and Omar and I were bound to get our photos printed in two or three magazines whether we won the tourney or not。
A Georgia state highway patrolman waved us through the gate to the senator's plantation without getting off his motorcycle。 Seeing the back of the pickup and the station wagon both loaded with chicken coops； he didn't need to check our identification cards。 A mile down the yellowgraveled road； I took the fork toward the cockpit and cockhouses to weigh in and put our gamecocks away before signing in at the senator's house。
Peach Owen met us in the yards； assigned us to a cockhouse； and gave us our numbers to wear on the back of our coats。 We were No。 5； and before we did anything else we pinned on our numbers。
Mr。 Owen was the weight…and…time official for the tourney； and president of the Southern Conference Cockfighting Association。 He was a well…liked； friendly man in his mid…thirties who had given up a promising career in cockfighting to work full time for the senator and the Southern Conference。 Senator Foxhall； who was getting too old now to do much of anything； paid Peach ten thousand dollars a year to breed and take care of his flock of fancy game fowl。
〃Do you want to weigh in now or wait till morning？〃 Peach asked。
〃Let's get it over with；〃 Omar said； handing Peach our record sheets。
〃I don't need both of you；〃 Peach winked at me。 〃There's a fellow up at the house who wants to see you； Mr。 Mansfield。〃
He didn't say who it was so I stayed for the weighing…in； an almost useless precaution at a professional meet like the S。C。 Tourney。
At the majority of U。S。 tournaments； cocks are weighed and banded upon checking in。 This banding procedure is supposed to ensure that each entry will fight only the cocks he has entered。 Before each fight； weight slips are called out； and the entrants heel the cock from their assigned cockhouse according to the exact weight on the slip。 If they fail to show