El Chico, Champion Caribe de la Tierra Firme,
And
Ben Hordano, Champion, of Mexico City.
Grand Feast of Pugilism.
At three o’clock punctually.”
“H’m!” Captain Cary said, “it’s nearly three now. They evidently won’t begin very punctually, for we are almost the only white people here. We might have had time to go down the south end of the water-front to see that new floating dock they’ve got there.”
“Shall we go, then, sir?”
“No. It’s too late now. We’re here now. We may as well stay here now we are here. It’s a dock badly needed in Las Palomas and I wanted to see it. It’s like the one they have at San Agostino.”
They sat talking while they waited, but there was always a professional restraint about their talk. Captain Cary ashore was still “the old man,” Sard Harker, the mate, was still, in the captain’s eyes, the boy whom he had taught to steer. Both found themselves staring ahead over the further wall of the arena, at the old Spanish fortifications as white as spray beyond.
There came a pounce and squeal in the air just over the open ring. There were excited cries from the negroes, the wail died out and a few feathers drifted down into the ring.