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arguments. I’ve argued the pros and cons of cockfighting thousands of times, and you know I’ve always been on the pro side. If there’s a better way of life than raising and fighting game chickens, I haven’t found it yet,” he said grimly. “But I’m a married man, Frank, and you aren’t. That’s the difference. I’m happily married, and I have been for more than thirty years, but I can still envy a man like you. There aren’t a dozen men in the United States who’ve devoted their lives solely to cockfighting like you have, that is, without earning their living in some other line of business.
    â€œI suppose I’ve known you for ten years or more and, as a single man, you’ve got the best life in the world. You’ve earned the respect of all of us, Frank.”
    I was embarrassed by the praise.
    â€œThat was a clever trick you pulled this afternoon, Frank!”
    I started with surprise, and Mr. Middleton guffawed loudly.
    â€œI haven’t seen anyone pull that stunt with the cracked bill to raise the odds in about fifteen years. Don’t blame yourself for losing that fight. Write it off to bad luck, or face up that Jack Burke had the better chicken. But that isn’t what I wanted to talk about.
    â€œMartha has been after me to quit for years, and I finally gave in. I’m not too old, but I certainly don’t need the money. I’ve got enough orange trees in Orlando to take care of my wants for three lifetimes. If Martha shared my enthusiasm for the game, it would be different. But she won’t go on the road with me. This business of living alone in motel rooms doesn’t appeal to me anymore. The two months I spent refereeing in Clovis, New Mexico, last spring were the loneliest weeks of my entire life.
    â€œAnyway, I’ve sold all my Grays. Made a deal for the lot with a breeder in Janitzio, Mexico, and shipped out the last crate of April trios last week. If he fights my Grays as slashers, he’ll lose his damned camisa, but at any rate, they won’t be fighting in the States.
    â€œIf you wonder why I refereed today’s fight, it was because I promised Captain Mack a year ago. But that was my last appearance in the pit, and you won’t see me in the pits again, either as a referee or spectator.” Ed sighed deeply, his confession completed. “Like the lawyer feller says, Frank, ‘Further deponent sayeth not.’”
    Several dissuading arguments came immediately to my mind, but I remained silent, of course. As far as I was concerned, what Ed Middleton did was his business, not mine. But his loss to the game would be felt in the South. We needed men like him to keep the sport clean and honest. I didn’t say anything because of my self-imposed vow of silence.
    Up to this moment I’ve never told anyone why I made the vow. What I do is my business, but the silver medal on Ed Middleton’s watch fob held the answer. Money had nothing to do with my decision to keep my mouth shut.
    All of us in America want money because we need it and cannot live without it, but we don’t need as much money as most of us think we do. Money isn’t enough. We must have something more, and my something more was the Cockfighter of the Year award.
    The small silver coin on Ed’s watch fob was only worth, in cash, about ten or fifteen dollars, but a lot of men have settled for lesser honors. A man may refuse a clerk’s job with a loan company, for instance, for one hundred dollars a week. But if the same man is put in charge of three typists and is given the exalted title of office manager, the chances are that he will work for ninety dollars a week. In business, this is a well-known “for instance.”
    Unlike Great Britain, we don’t have any peerages to hand out, or any annual Queen’s Honors List, so most of us settle for less, a hell of a lot less. In large corporations, the businessman