Cockfighter

I WAS TIRED when I reached Jacksonville, but I wasn’t sleepy. I had hoped to get some sleep in the cab of the truck on the long drive down, but the driver had talked continuously. As I listened to him, dumbly, my eyes smarting from cigarette smoke and the desire to close them, he poured out the dull, intimate details of his boring life—his military service with the First Calvary Division in Vietnam, his courtship, his marriage, and his plans for the future (he wanted to be truck dispatcher so he could sit on his ass). He was still going strong when we reached Jax. To finish his autobiography, he parked at a drive-in and bought me ham and eggs for breakfast.

After shaking hands with the voluble truck driver, who wasn’t really a bad guy, I caught a bus downtown and checked into the Jeff Davis Hotel. One look at the soft double bed and I became wide awake. If my plan was successful, I would know within three days, and I didn’t have time to sleep all day. I had to proceed with a confidence I didn’t actually have, as though there could be no doubt of the outcome.

After I shaved, I prepared a list for Doc Riordan. These were supplies I would need, and I intended to take advantage of our agreement. It would take a long time to use up eight hundred dollars worth of cocker’s supplies.

One. Conditioning powder. Doc made a reliable conditioning powder—a concoction containing iron for vigor, and Vitamin B₁. This powder, mixed with a gamecock’s special diet, is a valuable aid to developing a bird’s muscles and reflexes. I put down an order for three pounds.

Two. Dextrose capsules. A dextrose capsule, dropped down a gamecock’s throat an hour before a fight, gives him the same kind of fresh energy a candy bar provides to a mountain climber halfway up the mountain. On my list I put down an order for a twenty-four-gamecock season supply.

Three. Doc Riordan’s Blood Builder. For many years Doc Riordan had made and sold a blood coagulant that was as good as any on the market. If he didn’t have any on hand he could make more. This was a blood builder in capsule form containing Vitamin K, the blood coagulating vitamin, whole liver and several other secret ingredients. Who can judge the effectiveness of a blood coagulant? I can’t. But if any blood coagulants worked, and I don’t leave any loopholes when it comes to conditioning, I preferred to use Doc Riordan’s. Again I marked down enough for a twenty-four-gamecock supply.

Four. Disinfectants. Soda, formaldehyde, sulfur, carbolic acid, oil of tansy, sassafras, creosote, camphor and rubbing alcohol. Insects are a major problem for cockfighters. Lice are almost impossible to get rid of completely, but a continuous fight against them must be fought if a man wants to keep healthy game fowl. Give me a plentiful supply of all of these, I wrote on my list.

Five. Turpentine. Five gallons. The one essential fluid a cocker must have for survival. God has seen fit to subject chickens to the most loathsome diseases in the world—pip, gapes, costiveness, diarrhea, distemper, asthma, catarrh, apoplexy, cholera, lime legs, canker and many others. Any one of these sicknesses can knock out a man’s entire flock of game fowl before he knows what has happened to him. Fortunately, a feather dipped in turpentine and shoved into a cock’s nostrils, or swabbed in his throat, or sometimes just a few drops of turpentine in a bird’s drinking water, will prevent or cure many of these diseases. When turpentine fails, I destroy the sick chicken and bury him deep to prevent the spread of his disease.

When I completed my list I sealed it in a hotel envelope, wrote Doc Riordan’s name on the outside, and headed for the drugstore where he had part-time work. Doc wasn’t in, but the owner said he was expected at noon. Figuring that Doc would freely requisition most of the items on my list from the owner,, I decided not to leave it, and to come back later.

I walked to the Western Union office and sent two straight wires. The first wire was to my neighbor and fellow cocker in Ocala, Omar Baradinsky:

HAVE LIGHTS AND WATER TURNED ON AT MY FARM.

WILL REIMBURSE UPON ARRIVAL. F. MANSFIELD.

I knew Omar wouldn’t mind attending to this chore for me in downtown Ocala and inasmuch as I didn’t know what day or what time I would arrive at the farm, I wanted to be certain there was water and electricity when I got there.

The other wire was to Mr. Jake Mellhorn, Altamount, North Carolina. Jake Mellhorn bred and sold a game strain called the Mellhorn Black. It was a rugged breed, and I knew this from watching Blacks fight many times.

These chickens fought equally well in long and short heels, depending upon their conformation and conditioning, but they were unpredictable fighters—some were cutters and others were shufflers—and they had a tendency to alternate their tactics in the pit. As a general rule I prefer cutters over shufflers, but I needed a dozen Aces and a fair price. Jake Mellhorn had been after me for several years to try a season with his Blacks, and I knew that he would give me a fairly low price on a shipment of a dozen. If I won with his game strain at any of the major derbies, he would be able to jack the price up on the game fowl he sold the following season to other cockers. I could win with any hardy, farm-walked game strain that could stand up under my conditioning methods—Claret, Madigan, Whitehackle, Doms—but the excellent cocks I would need would cost too much, especially after putting out five hundred dollars for Icky. It wouldn’t hurt anything to send a wire to Jake find out what he had to offer anyway.

TO: JAKE MELLHORN, ALTAMOUNT, N.C.

NEED TWELVE FARM-WALKED COCKS. NO STAGS, NO COOPWALKS WANTED. PUREBRED MELLHORNS ONLY. NO CROSSES. SEND PRICE AND DETAILS C/O JEFF DAVIS HOTEL, JACKSONVILLE, FLA.

F. MANSFIELD.

If I knew Jake Mellhorn, and I knew the egotistic, self-centered old man well, I’d have special delivery letter from him within a couple of days. And on my first order, at least, he would send me Aces.

I paid the girl for the wires, and then ate a hamburger at a little one-arm joint down the street before returning to Foster’s Drugstore.

Now that the wires were on their way, I felt committed, even though they didn’t mean anything in themselves. I felt like I was getting the dice rolling by forcing my luck.

I couldn’t pay for the Mellhorns, no matter how good a price Jake gave me. I couldn’t even repay Omar Baradinsky the utilities deposit money he would put up for me in Ocala—and yet I felt confident. Surely Judge Powell would come through with one thousand, five hundred dollars now, because I had acted as though he would. It was a false feeling of confidence, and I knew that it was bogus in the same way a man riding in a transatlantic airplane knows that there cannot possibly be a crack-up because he bought one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of insurance at the airport before the plane took off.

Doc Riordan was sitting at the fountain counter, wearing a short white jacket, when I entered the drugstore. I eased onto the stool beside him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hello, Frank,” he said, smiling. In the cramped space, we shook hands awkwardly without getting up. “Mr. Foster said there was a big man with a cowboy hat looking for me. Inasmuch as I don’t know any bill collectors who don’t talk, I figgered it was you.”

I handed Doc the envelope. He studied the list, and whispered softly through closed teeth. “That’s a mighty big order on short notice, Frank,” he said, frowning. “I don’t have any conditioning powder made up, and there’s been so much flu going around Jax lately, I’ve got sixty-three prescriptions to fill before I can do anything else.” He tapped the list with a forefinger. “Can you let me have a couple of days?”

I had to smile. At that stage I could have let him have a couple of months. I clapped him on the shoulder and nodded understandingly.

“Good. Come in day after tomorrow and it’ll be waiting for you. All of it.” He smiled. “Kinda looks like you’ve got your chickens for the season, and I hope you’ll have a good one. Anytime you need something fast, just drop me a card here at Foster’s. I know damned well I’ll make the Milledgeville Tourney, but that’ll be the only one this year. I’ve got too many feelers out on Licarbo to go to chicken fights. But then, I might get a chance to run down to Plant City—”

He had work to do, so I slid off the stool and left abruptly while he was still talking.

For the rest of the afternoon I prowled used car lots as a tire-kicker, trying to locate a pickup truck of some kind that would hold together for four or five months. Around four o’clock, I discovered an eight-year-old Ford half-ton pickup that looked suitable, and the salesmen rode around the block with me when I tried it out. All afternoon my silence had unnerved talkative used car salesman. After five minutes of my kind of silence, they usually gave up on their sales talks and let me look around in peace. This fellow was more persistent. After reparking the truck in its place on the fourth row of the lot, I looked at the salesman inquisitively.

“This is a real buy for one fifty,” he said sincerely. He was a young man in his early twenties, with a freckled earnest face. His flattop haircut and wet-look black leather sports jacket reminded me of a Marine captain wearing civilian clothes for the first time. For all I knew, he was an ex-Marine.

“But old pickups don’t sell so well these days. Too many rich farmers buying new ones. SO I’ll let you have it for a hundred-dollar bill.”

I studied him for a moment, maintaining my expressionless face, and then got out of the cab of the truck. I started toward the looping chain fence that bordered the sidewalk, and he caught up with me before I reached the first line of cars. He put a freckled hand on my arm, but when I dropped my eyes to his hand, he jerked it away as though my sleeve were on fire.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, sir,” he said quickly. “Just to move the old Ford and get it off the lot, I’ll give up my commission. You can have the truck for eighty-five bucks. Give me ten dollars down, and drive it away. Here’re the keys.” He held out the keys, but I didn’t look at them. I kept my eyes on his face.

“All right,” he said nervously. “Seventy-five, and that’s rock bottom.”

I nodded. A fair price. More than fair. The truck had had hard use, and most of the paint had been chipped off in preparation for a new paint job. But no one had ever gotten around to repainting it. I pointed to the low sun above the skyline, and he followed my pointing finger with his pale blue eyes. To catch his wandering attention again I snapped my fingers and then held up three fingers before his face.

I shrugged indifferently and left the lot. I had a hunch that the pickup would still be there when I came back for it.

When I got back to my hotel room I counted my money. Twenty-three dollars and eighty-one cents. Money just seems to evaporate. I had no idea where all of it had gone, but I had to nurse what was left like a miser. Twelve dollars would be needed to pay for four days’ rent on the hotel room, and I would have to eat and smoke on the remainder. If I didn’t get a letter from Judge Powell within three days, or four at the most, I would have to make other plans of some kind.

I spent the next three days at the public library. There was a long narrow café near the hotel that featured an Eye-Opener Early-Bird Breakfast, consisting of one egg, one slice of bacon, one slice of brushed margarine toast and a cup of coffee all for forty-two cents. After eating this meager fare, I walked slowly to the library and sat outside on the steps until it opened, thinking forward to lunch. I read magazines until noon in the periodical room, and then returned to the hotel and checked the desk for my mail. I then returned to the library. By two o’clock I was ravenous, and I would eat a poor boy sandwich across the street, and drink a Coca-Cola. The poor boy sandwich had three varieties of meat, but not much meat. I then returned to the library and read books until it closed at nine p.m.

My taste in reading is catholic. I can take Volume III of the Encyclopedia Americana out of the stacks and read it straight through from Corot to Deseronto with an equal interest, or lack of interest, in each subject. Roget’s Thesaurus or a dictionary can hold my attention for several hours. I don’t own many books. There were only a few on poultry breeding at my Ocala farm and a first edition of Histories of Game Strains that I won as a prize one time at a cockfight. And I also owned a beat-up copy of Huckleberry Finn. I suppose I’ve drifted down the river with Huck Finn & Co. fifty times or more.

When the library closed at nine, I ate a hamburger, returned to the hotel and went to bed.

Three days passed quickly this way. On the morning of the fourth day, however, I didn’t leave the hotel. My stomach was so upset I didn’t even feel like eating the scanty Eye-Opener Early-Bird Breakfast, afraid I couldn’t hold it. I sat in the lobby waiting apprehensively for the mail.

There were two letters for me, both of them special delivery. One was a thick brown envelope from Jake Mellhorn. I didn’t open either letter until I had reached my room. My fingers were damp when I opened the thick envelope from Judge Powell first, but when I emptied the envelope onto my bed, the only thing I could see was a gray-green certified check from the Mansfield Farmer’s Trust, made out to my name for one thousand, five hundred dollars!

My reaction to the check surprised me. I hadn’t realized how much I had counted on getting it. My knees began to shake first, and then my hands. A moment later my entire body was shivering as though I had malaria, and I had to sit down quickly. I was wet from my hair down to the soles of my feet with a cold, clammy perspiration that couldn’t have been caused by anything else but cold, irrational fear. Of course, I hadn’t allowed my mind to dwell on the possibility of failure, but now that I actually had the money, the suppressed doubts and fears made themselves felt. But my physical reaction didn’t last very long. I stripped to the waist and bathed my upper body with a cold washrag, and dried myself thoroughly, before reading Judge Powell’s letter. It was a long letter, overly long, typed single spaced on his law firm’s letterhead, watermarked stationery:

I handled this matter personally, following your desires throughout, feeling you knew your brother Randall better than me. You did. When I called on him and informed him that you intended to break the will of your father, he laughed. If it hadn’t been for your copious notes, his laughter would have surprised me.

“No,” I told him (again following your instructions). “Your brother, Frank, said it wouldn’t be necessary. ‘When Randall sees that he is in an untenable position, he will sign a quitclaim deed immediately and move out.”’

“Yes, you are,” I told him. “That’s why I brought a quitclaim deed for you to sign.”

He laughed and signed the deed. “In New York,” he said, “you wouldn’t have a chance, Judge.” I remained silent instead of reminding him that the case, if brought to a trial, would be held in Georgia. “When does Frank want me to leave?”

This statement gave your brother additional cause for merriment, because he laughed until the tears rolled down his face.

“Frank only wants a profit of one thousand, five hundred dollars,” I told your brother. “He instructed me to give you any amount over that, after deducting my fee, of course.”

“That’s generous of Frank,” he said, “but there are some taxes due, about seven hundred dollars.” “I’m aware of the taxes,” I said.

“All right, Judge. You’ve got your quitclaim deed Continue on down the road and sell the property to Wright Gaylord. I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow morning when you bring me my share, if there’s anything left over.”

Wright Gaylord gave me a check the same afternoon for three thousand, five hundred dollars, which I accepted reluctantly. Given more time I am positive that your property would have sold for eight or possibly ten thousand dollars. But the sum adequately covered your required one thousand, five hundred and my fee of five hundred dollars, so I closed the sale then and there. You didn’t mention it in your notes, but I realize the astuteness of selling to Mr. Gaylord, although I doubt if he did. Upon your marriage to his sister you will automatically get half your farm back and half of his as well. Mr. Gaylord is also a client of mine, and this was a fine point of legal ethics, but inasmuch as he is certainly aware of your engagement to his sister, I did not deem it necessary to remind him.

Enclosed is a certified check for one thousand, five hundred dollars. My fee of five hundred dollars has been deducted, the taxes have been paid, plus stamps, and miscellaneous expenses. I gave your brother a check for seven hundred and sixty-eight dollars and fifty cents. Randall and his wife left yesterday on the bus for Macon.

Mr. Gaylord has already begun to tear down your father’s farmhouse and the outlying buildings. He hired a wrecking crew from Atlanta, and I saw some of their equipment moving through town yesterday. However, he agreed to keep your Negro tenant on the place if he wanted to stay, per your request. But he would not consent to keep him on shares because Charley Smith is too old. Your main concern, I believe, was to maintain a home for Charley and his family, so again, in lieu of instructions to the contrary, I agreed to this condition.

There are also some papers enclosed for you to sign on the places marked with a small X in red pencil. They have been predated, including the power of attorney, in order to send you the money without undue delay. Please return them (after you have signed them) as quickly as possible.

If your father were still alive, I know he would want you to use your money wisely, so I can only say the same. “A rolling stone gathers no moss” is an old saying but a true one nevertheless. If I can help you further do not hesitate to ask me.

Very truly yours,

BRANTLEY POWELL

BP/bj Attorney-at-Law

I didn’t mind the moralizing of the windy old man, because he didn’t know what I planned to use the money for, but I was irritated because he had dictated the letter to his big-mouthed old maid secretary, Miss Birdie Janes. The small initials, “bj” in the lower left-hand corner of the letter meant that my business would be spread all over the county by now. I realized that it was a long letter, and I appreciated the details, but the old man should have written the letter personally. When I returned to Mansfield, eventually, sides would be taken—some for Randall and some for me, but the majority would take Randall’s side, even though I was legally and morally right about taking what rightfully belonged to me.

Glad to see you’re getting sense enough to know that the Mellhorn Black is the best gamecock in the world, bar none!!! And you’re lucky you wired me just when you did. I just brought in twenty-two cocks, but if you only want a dozen country-walked roosters, you can have the best of the lot, which is plenty damned good!!! I can ship you six Aces, two to three years old. The other six are brothers, five months past staghood, but all are guaranteed dead on, and they’ll cut for you or your money back. As you know, I ship them wormed, in wooden coops, but they’ll need watering upon arrival. Don’t trust the damned express company to water birds en route—they’ll steal the cracked corn out of the coops and make popcorn out of it. As a special price—TO YOU ONLY!!! One dozen Mellhorn Blacks for only seven hundred dollars. That’s much less than seventy-five apiece. Let me know by return wire, because I can sell them anywhere for one hundred and twenty-five dollars each.

For a good season,

JAKE MELLHORN

An outlay of seven hundred dollars, although it was an exceptionally fair price for Ace Mellhorns, would make a deep dent in my one thousand, five hundred dollars, but I had little choice. I had to have them, or others just as good. Another five hundred to Ed Middleton, seventy-five dollars for the truck, and I’d be down to only two hundred and twenty-five. Luckily, I had feed at Ocala left over from last year, and the older Flint corn is, the better it is for feeding. And within two weeks I could win some money at the Ocala cockpit. At least two, or possibly three, birds could be conditioned for battle by that time.

After packing and checking out of the hotel, I cashed the check at the bank. I wired seven hundred dollars to Jake Mellhorn immediately with instructions to ship the cocks to my farm. I mailed the signed papers back to Judge Powell special delivery, and headed for the used car lot to buy the staked-out pickup truck.

Within two hours, I was driving out of Jacksonville. The cocker’s supplies from Doc Riordan were in the truck bed, along with my suitcase and gaff case, covered by a tarp. The remainder of my money, in tens and twenties, was pinned inside my jacket pocket with a safety pin.

As I turned onto Highway 17 I thought suddenly of Bernice Hungerford. She had been in my thoughts several times during the last three days, especially late at night when I had been trying to sleep, with hunger pangs burning my stomach. In fact, I had considered seriously going out to her house and chiseling a free meal. But I had felt too guilty to go. Leaving a broken guitar on her front porch hadn’t been a brilliant idea.

There was a filling station ahead, and I pulled onto the ramp and pointed to the regular pump.

While I was still looking at the large city map inside the station, the attendant interrupted me to ask if everything was all right under the hood. The question was so stupid I must have looked surprised, because he blushed with embarrassment and checked beneath the hood without waiting for a reply. How else can a man discover whether oil and water are needed unless he looks?

I traced the map and found Bernice’s street. Her house was about three miles out of my way. I didn’t really owe her anything, but I knew my conscience would be eased if I repaid the woman the thirty dollars she had advanced me when I had needed it. I turned around, and drove slowly until I reached a shopping center that had a florist’s shop. I parked, entered the shop, and selected a dozen yellow roses out of the icebox. The stems were at least two feet long.

“These will make a beautiful arrangement,” the gray-haired saleswoman smiled. “Do you want to include a card?”

When I nodded she gave me a small white card and a tiny envelope that went with it. I scrawled a short note:

Whether Bernice would write to me or not I didn’t know. I did feel, however, that the roses and thirty dollars in cash would make up for my abrupt leave-taking without saying good-bye. And I did like the woman. I tucked the money inside the little envelope, together with the card, and licked the flap.

“And where do you wish these delivered, sir?” the saleswoman asked, handing me a pink bill for twenty-five dollars and fifty cents. I put the money on the counter, and tugged at my lower lip. By having them delivered I could save time.

That settled it. I had to deliver the roses and the note myself. The woman was too damned anxious. Her gray hair and kindly, crinkled-faced smile didn’t fool me. I had selected the twelve yellow roses with care. If I had allowed them to be delivered she would have either switched them for older roses, or changed them for carnations or something. After pocketing my change, I pointed to the stack of green waxed paper and made a circular motion with my hand for the woman to wrap them up.

When I reached 111 Melrose Avenue, I rang the bell several times, but there was no one at home. I waited impatiently for five minutes, and then left the flowers at the door. I slipped the note containing the money under the door. Maybe it was better that way.

The next move, if any, would be up to Bernice. If she had been home, I probably would have stayed overnight with her and lost another day. There was too much work ahead of me to waste time romancing a wealthy widow.

The old pickup drove well on the highway, but I was afraid to drive more than forty miles an hour. When I revved it up to fifty, the front wheels shimmied. Long before reaching Orlando I was remorseful about the grand gesture of giving the roses and thirty bucks to Bernice Hungerford. It would have been wiser to wait until I was flush again. The damned money was dripping through my fingers like water, and I’d have to win some fights before any more came in. But when I pictured the delighted expression on Bernice’s jolly face when she discovered the flowers at her front floor, I felt better.

I reached Orlando before midnight. I saved eight dollars by driving through town to Ed Middleton’s private road, and by sleeping in the back of the truck in his orange grove. The excitement had drifted out of my mind, and, as tired as I was, I slept as well in the truck as I would have slept in a motel bed.

The next morning, when I parked in his carport and knocked on his kitchen door at six a.m., Ed wasn’t happy to see me. Martha Middleton, however, appeared to be overjoyed by my early morning appearance. She cracked four more eggs into the frying pan and decided to make biscuits after all.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Ed said gruffly, after he filled my cup with coffee.

I grinned at his discomfiture, took the money out of my jacket, and peeled off five hundred dollars on the breakfast-nook table. Ed glared at the stack of bills. Martha stayed close to her stove, pursing her lips. I drank half of my coffee, and started in on my fried eggs before Ed Middleton said a word. In the back of my mind, I was more or less hoping he would change his mind and renege on the deal. Icarus was a mighty fine rooster, but five hundred dollars was a lot of money, and I needed every cent I could get at the moment.

“Well,” Ed said thoughtfully. He counted the money twice, removed the top five twenty-dollar bills and shoved the remaining four hundred dollars back across the table.

“Here!” he said angrily. “I won’t hold you to the ridiculous price we agreed on, Frank. I’ll just take a hundred as a token payment. Besides, I’m sick of looking at game chickens. I’m tired of the whole business! Come on, let’s go get your damned rooster!”

By the time Ed finished talking, he was almost shouting and out of the nook and fumbling at the doorknob.

“Can’t you wait until Frank finishes his breakfast?” Martha said, with quiet good humor.

“Sure, sure,” Ed managed to get the door open. “Take your time, Frank,” he said contritely. “I’ll go on out to the runs and put Icarus in your aluminum coop. Also, those two battered Grays are in good shape again. You can have them and the game hen, too. I’ll have them all in coops by the time you finish eating.” The door banged shut.

I wiped some egg yolk off the top twenty with a napkin and returned the money to my inside jacket pocket. The kitchen door opened again, and Ed stuck his head in. “Can you use some corn? Barley?”

“Good. There’re about three or four partly used stacks of both in the feed shack. But it you want ’ em, you’ll have to carry’ em to the truck yourself. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to do it!” The door slammed again.

I wanted to follow him out the door but thought it best to finish my breakfast and let Ed cool off a little bit. He had never really expected me to show up with five hundred dollars for his pretty pet gamecock. But his astonishment was in my favor. He had been shamed into returning four hundred dollars, and now I was way ahead of the game. The Middleton Gray game hen was valuable for breeding, and the two Gray gamecocks were worth at least fifty dollars apiece.

“Don’t you pay any mind to Ed’s bluster, Frank,” Martha said gently. “He’s just upset and doesn’t mean half of what he says. I know how much store he sets by those chickens. Someday, he’ll thank me, Frank. You think I’m unreasonable, I know, making him give up his chickens and stopping him from following fights all over the country, but I’m not really. Ed’s had two heart attacks in the last eighteen months. After the last one he was in bed for two weeks and the doctor told him not to do anything at all. Nothing.” She shook her head.

“He isn’t supposed to pick so much as an orange up off the ground. Why, the last time the doctor came out and saw that the roosters were still out there he had a fit! Now go out and get your chickens, Frank, and don’t let Ed help you lift anything.”

I slid out from the table and patted Martha on the shoulder. Ed Middleton certainly knew how to keep a secret. I hadn’t known anything about his ailing heart.

“I know you won’t say anything, Frank,” Martha said, smiling, “but don’t look anything, either!” Despite her smile and the humor in her voice, there were sparks of terror in her eyes. “Ed hasn’t told a soul about his bad heart, and I know he wouldn’t want me to tell you. He tries to pretend he’s as strong as he ever was.”

I wanted to say something, anything that would comfort the woman, but I couldn’t. He was going to die soon. I could tell by her eyes.

I smiled, nodded and left the kitchen. The moment I was outside, I lit out around the little lake at a dead run to get my prize rooster before Ed Middleton could change his mind.

9