They were soon on the way, down one broad street and then into a side road which was little better than an alleyway. At the end of the road stood a ramshackle building dimly lit. Over the door hung a gilded horn of plenty, giving to the resort its name, Horn of Gold.
Entering the drinking room they found a crowd of thirty or forty assembled, of various nationalities, some black and some white, with two or three of Indian blood. At the rear a negro was strumming a guitar and another was singing at the top of his lungs, in order to make himself heard. But the clanking of glasses and the loud talking all but drowned out the music, if such it can be called.
To a youth of good habits the surroundings would have been disgusting to the last degree. But Hockley took them in as “part of the game,” and said nothing. Yet the thick tobacco smoke made him dizzy, and he dropped his own cigar when Markel was not looking.
Hockley was at a disadvantage, since he could not speak a word of the language. He listened attentively for some English, but none was spoken.
“Sit down here while I learn the particulars of this fight,” said the man from Baltimore, and motioned him to a seat in a corner, near the guitar player. Then Markel went off, not to re-appear for ten minutes.
“It’s all right—I’ve got two tickets, but I had to pay six bolivars for them,” said the man, on returning. “Come this way.”
They passed through a dark passageway and into a small enclosure without a roof. There were several rows of benches around a boarded-up ring in the center. Half a dozen smoky lamps lit up this fighting pit, as it was termed.
“One bird is called the King and the other Favorita,” said Markel. “The odds are on the King. I’m going to lay a few bolivars on him.”
“Do the same for me,” said Hockley and passed over some silver coins. He was so dizzy from smoking and drinking that he could scarcely remember what the coins were worth.
Markel made the bets, and soon the place began to fill with the sports who had come to see the fight. None of those who came in were the least bit “high-toned” in appearance, much to Hockley’s chagrin, nor did he behold a single military uniform, although he had expected to see a number.