There was a strain of the Spartan mother in this smiling daughter, wife, and mother of soldiers.
"Did you have a pleasant visit from Mr.Broussard ?" asked Colonel Fortescue.
"Very pleasant, daddy dear.

He knows so much about birds." "I think," replied the Colonel, darkly, "Mr.Broussard's knowledge comes chiefly from the study of fighting chickens." "I hear he has cockfights on Sunday, in the cellar of his quarters," said Mrs.Fortescue, willing to give Broussard a slashing cut under the fifth rib.
"Cocking mains, my dear," corrected the Colonel, and then kept on, earnestly, to Anita.
"Yon can scarcely imagine the horrors of a cockpit.

The poor gamecocks, with cruel spurs upon their feet, tearing each other to pieces, and blood and feathers all over the place." "You seem wonderfully familiar with cockpits," remarked Mrs.Fortescue.
"It seems to me, when we went to our first post after we were married, that you were sometimes missing on Sunday morning, and used to tell me afterward about the grand time you had, and the superior fighting qualities of the Savoys over the Bantams." The Colonel scowled.
"I don't recall the circumstances, Elizabeth," he said.
"But I do, John," tartly responded Mrs.Fortescue.
Anita knew that when it was Jack and Betty the skies were serene, and when it became John and Elizabeth there were clouds upon the horizon.
At this point Kettle, who was serving dinner, felt that his duty as Broussard's ally was to speak.
"Miss Betty," said he with solemn emphasis, "Mr.Broussard doan' keep them chickens in his cellar fur to fight; he keeps 'em to lay aigs fur his breakfus'." "That's queer," said the Colonel, "all of Mr.Broussard's chickens are cock chickens." This would have abashed a less ardent partisan, but it only stimulated Kettle.
"Come to think of it, Miss Betty," Kettle continued stoutly, "them chickens is cock chickens, but Mr.Broussard, he keep 'em for fryin' chickens and bri'lers; he eats a cock chicken ev'ry mornin' fur his breakfus', day in and day out." "Oh, Kettle!" said Anita, in a tone of soft reproach.

She disliked the notion of a cockpit, but she was a lover of abstract truth, which Kettle was not.
"Well, Miss Anita," Kettle began argumentatively, "the truth is, Mr.
Broussard, he jes' keep them chickens to' 'commodate the chaplain.

The chaplain, he's a gre't cockfighter, an' he say, 'Mr.Broussard, the Kun'l is mighty strict, an' kinder queer in his head, an' he ain't no dead game sport like me an' you, so if you will oblige me, Mr.
Broussard, jes' keep my fightin' chickens in your cellar, an' if the Kun'l say anything to you, tell him them chickens is yourn.