Cohn woke me when he came in.

He started to undress and went over and closed the window because the people on the balcony of the house just across the street were looking in.

"Did you see the show?" I asked.

"Yes. We were all there."

"Anybody get hurt?"

"One of the bulls got into the crowd in the ring and tossed six or eight people."

"How did Brett like it?"

"It was all so sudden there wasn't any time for it to bother anybody."

"I wish I'd been up."

"We didn't know where you were. We went to your room but it was locked."

"Where did you stay up?"

"We danced at some club."

"I got sleepy," I said.

"My gosh ! I'm sleepy now," Cohn said. "Doesn't this thing ever stop?"

"Not for a week."

Bill opened the door and put his head in.

"Where were you, Jake?"

"I saw them go through from the balcony. How was it?"

"Grand."

"Where you going?"

"To sleep."

No one was up before noon.

We ate at tables set out under the arcade. The town was full of people.

We had to wait for a table. After lunch we went over to the Irufla.

It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer.

There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight.

The café did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was.

This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it.

I had taken six seats for all the fights.

Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre.

Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them.

Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell.

Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses.

Bill had seen one season of bull-fights.

"I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored," Cohn said.

"You think so?"

"Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit."

"I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right."

"You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad."

"She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her."

"I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said.

"I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wineskin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed."

"I'll come along," Bill said.

Brett smiled at us.

We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square.

"That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored."

"We'll watch him with the glasses," I said.

"Oh, to hell with him !"

"He spends a lot of time there."

"I want him to stay there."

In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.

"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?"

"Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him."

We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor.

"He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight."

Montoya knocked on the door and opened it.

It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition.

The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes.

His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash.

His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the swordhandler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back.

Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck.

Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen.

"You go to the bull-fight," he said in English.

"You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot.

"No," he answered, and smiled.

One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French.

"Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?"

We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask?

The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handlet and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes.

We wished him "Mucha suerte (西语，祝你幸运)," shook hands, and went out.

He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door.

"He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked.

"He's a good-looking kid," I said.

"He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type."

"He's a fine boy."

"We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said.

We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs.

It was a good bull-fight. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero.

Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head.

This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable.

But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much.

Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset.

All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them.

"Let me take the glasses," Bill said.

"Does Cohn look bored?" I asked.

"That kike !"

Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd.

We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town.

We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bullfight. The fiesta was going on.

The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers.

The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet.

All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down.

Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the café.

The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers.

"What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked.

"It's a sort of jota."

"They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes."

"It's swell dancing."