There were several preliminary contests and before each one Colonel Joe came to the front and introduced the combatants with a short history of their achievements.  A Hindu boy was matched against a white one, a couple of wrestlers came next, and then two English sailors, with more spirit than skill, had a set-to which warmed the audience into enthusiasm and ended amid shouts, whistles, shrill cat-calls, and thunders of applause.  Meanwhile the heat grew more and more intense, the faces shinier, the air more and more smoke-laden and heavy.

Shere Ali came on to the stage while the sailors were at work.  He exchanged a nod with “Colonel Joe,” and took his seat in the front row of chairs behind the ropes.

It was a rough gathering on the whole, though there were some men in evening-dress besides Colonel Joe, and of these two sat beside Shere Ali.  They were talking together, and Shere Ali at the first paid no heed to them.  The trainers, the backers, the pugilists themselves were the men who had become his associates in Calcutta.  There were many of them present upon the stage, and in turn they approached Shere Ali and spoke to him with familiarity upon the chances of the fight.  Yet in their familiarity there was a kind of deference.  They were speaking to a patron.  Moreover, there was some flattery in the attention with which they waited to catch his eye and the eagerness with which they came at once to his side.

“We are all glad to see you, sir,” said a small man who had been a jockey until he was warned off the turf.

“Yes,” said Shere Ali with a smile, “I am among friends.”

“Now who would you say was going to win this fight?” continued the jockey, cocking his head with an air of shrewdness, which said as plainly as words, “You are the one to tell if you will only say.”

Shere Ali expanded.  Deference and flattery, however gross, so long as they came from white people were balm to his wounded vanity.  The weeks in Calcutta had worked more harm than Ralston had suspected.  Shy of meeting those who had once treated him as an equal, imagining when he did meet them that now they only admitted him to their company on sufferance and held him in their thoughts of no account, he had become avid for recognition among the riff-raff of the town.

“I have backed the man from Singapore,” he replied, “I know him.  The soldier is a stranger to me”; and gradually as he talked the voices of his two neighbours forced themselves upon his consciousness.  It was not what they said which caught his attention.  But their accents and the pitch of their voices arrested him, and swept him back to his days at Eton and at Oxford.  He turned his head and looked carelessly towards them.  They were both young; both a year ago might have been his intimates and friends.  As it was, he imagined bitterly, they probably resented his sitting even in the next chair to them.

The stage was now clear; the two sailors had departed, the audience sat waiting for the heroes of the evening and calling for them with impatient outbursts of applause.  Shere Ali waited too.  But there was no impatience on his part, as there was no enthusiasm.  He was just getting through the evening; and this hot and crowded den, with its glitter of lights, promised a thrill of excitement which would for a moment lift him from the torture of his thoughts.