As soon as the round was ended, Tony made his way slowly towards his seat by the ring-side, exchanging innumerable greetings as he passed along. Almost everybody seemed to know him, and he seemed to have a smile and a cheery word for them all.
A few yards from his destination he came across the Marquis da Freitas. That distinguished statesman was seated in the front row of chairs enjoying a big cigar, while beside him lounged a dark, squarely built, rather coarse-featured youth, who greeted Tony with an affable if slightly condescending wave of his hand. The latter was none other than His Majesty King Pedro the Fifth, the rightful though temporarily discarded ruler of Livadia.
Tony pulled up at this mark of Royal recognition and shook hands with the Marquis and his monarch. It was understood that on such occasions as the present the ex-king preferred to be regarded as an ordinary member of the Club.
"Everything is good I hope," he observed to Tony. "Your man he is up to the scratch—eh?"
He spoke English confidently, but with a marked foreign accent.
"Rather," said Tony. "Never been fitter in his life. No excuses if we're beaten."
Da Freitas blew out a philosophic puff of smoke. "Ah, Sir Antony," he observed, "that is one of your national virtues. You are good losers, you English. Perhaps you do not feel defeat as deeply as Southerners."
"Perhaps not," admitted Tony cheerfully. "Anyhow, it's not much good making a song about things, is it? One's bound to strike a snag occasionally."
The Marquis nodded. "In Livadia," he said softly, "we do not like to be beaten. We——"
There was a loud tang from the gong and the two boxers sprang up out of their respective corners to resume the fight. With a gesture of apology Tony moved along to his seat, where he found himself next to "Doggy" Donaldson, who was discharging his customary rôle of Master of the Ceremonies. He welcomed Tony with a grip of the hand.