Why, we used to run races with 'em. Some of us would hold two or
more chickens back of a chalk line, and the starter'd blow the
horn from a hundred yards to a mile away, dependin' on whether it
was a sprint or for distance. We had pools on the results, gave
odds, made books, and kept records. After the thing got knowed
we made money hand over fist.
The stranger broke off abruptly and began to roll a cigarette.
"What did you quit it for, then?" ventured Charley, out of the
hushed silence.
"Pride," replied the stranger solemnly. "Haughtiness of spirit."
"How so?" urged Charley, after a pause.
"Them chickens," continued the stranger, after a moment, "stood
around listenin' to me a-braggin' of what superior fowls they was
until they got all puffed up. They wouldn't have nothin'
whatever to do with the ordinary chickens we brought in for
eatin' purposes, but stood around lookin' bored when there wasn't
no sport doin'. They got to be just like that Four Hundred you
read about in the papers. It was one continual round of
grasshopper balls, race meets, and afternoon hen-parties. They
got idle and haughty, just like folks. Then come race suicide.
They got to feelin' so aristocratic the hens wouldn't have no
eggs.
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