Overman had always scorned the suggestion of an artificial eye. He
swore he would never stick a piece of glass in his head to deceive
fools. He used to tell Gordon that he was the only one-eyed man in
New York who had the money to buy a glass eye and didn't do it.

"I prefer life's grim little joke to stand as it is," he said, as
he snapped his big jaws together and twisted the muscles of his
mouth into a sneer. He had a habit, when he closed an emphatic
speech, of twisting the muscles of his mouth in that way. When
animated in talk, he was the incarnation of disobedience, defiance,
scorn, success.

Two things he held in special pride--hatred for women and a
passionate love for game-cocks. He allowed no woman on his place
in any capacity, and, by the sounds day and night, he kept at least
a thousand roosters. He would drop the profoundest discussion of
philosophy or economics at the mention of a chicken, and with a
tender smile plunge into an endless eulogy of his pets.

Gordon found him in a chicken yard fitting gaffs on two cocks.

"Caught in the act!" he cried.

"Well, who cares? They've got to fight it out. It's in 'em. They're
full brothers, too. Hatched the same day. They never scrapped in
their lives till yesterday, when I brought a new pullet and put
her in the neighbouring yard. They both tried to make love to her
through the wire fence at the same time, and they were so busy
crowing and strutting and showing off to this pullet they ran