“Must be an off night,” said Markel. “Here, have another cigar. I see you have finished the other.”
He insisted upon Hockley smoking, and by the time the cocks were brought in to fight the youth was so dizzy he could scarcely see. The place was filled with smoke, the crowd talked, laughed, cheered and hissed, and oaths were by no means lacking. In the midst of it all the birds fought until one was so badly wounded that it died shortly afterwards and the other was almost equally mutilated. And yet some people call such cruelty sport! It is not sport at all, simply an exhibition of brutality, the same as bull baiting and prize fighting.
“What did you say? Is it over?” asked Hockley, trying to rouse himself from a sudden sickening stupor into which he had fallen.
“Yes, it’s over and our bird wasn’t in it,” replied Markel. “What did you think of it?”
“I couldn’t see much, on account of the poor lights and the tobacco smoke.”
“Yes, the light was beastly. But it was a gamey fight, I can tell you that. Come on.”
“I didn’t see many of the fashionables,” was Hockley’s comment.
“No. I was told there is a ball on somewhere to-night and they must have gone there. Let us go into the saloon and have a drink.”
There was a crowd in the dark passageway and Hockley found himself pushed first to one side and then another. Markel was beside him, and the hands of the man from Baltimore went into first one pocket of the youth’s clothes and then another.
As soon as they had reached the drinking place Dan Markel insisted upon treating his companion liberally. Then he settled the score and went out to order a carriage to take them to the hotel.