"Hello, Jake."

"Don't call me Jake."

I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home.

Now it was a hot bath that I needed.

A deep, hot bath, to lie back in.

"Where's the bathroom?" I asked.

Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying.

He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton.

"I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me."

"Forgive you, hell."

"Please forgive me, Jake."

I did not say anything. I stood there by the door.

"I was crazy. You must see how it was."

"Oh, that's all right."

"I couldn't stand it about Brett."

"You called me a pimp."

I did not care. I wanted a hot bath.

I wanted a hot bath in deep water.

"I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy."

"That's all right."

He was crying. His voice was funny.

He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt.

"I'm going away in the morning."

He was crying without making any noise.

"I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more."

He lay there on the bed.

"Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath."

"You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."

"Well," I said, "so long."

"I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use."

"What?"

"Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake."

"Sure," I said. "It's all right."

"I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything."

"Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go."

He rolled over sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up.

"So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?"

"Sure. Why not?"

We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well.

"Well," I said, "see you in the morning."

"I'm going away in the morning."

"Oh, yes," I said.

I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room.

"Are you all right, Jake?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right."

I could not find the bathroom.

After a while I found it.

There was a deep stone tub.

I turned on the taps and the water would not run.

I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub.

When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes.

I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs.

I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed.

I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street.

I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring.

I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning.

People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring.

Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths.

They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock.

I hurried across the street to the café.

The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone.

"How many were they?"

"Two gentlemen and a lady."

That was all right.

Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out.

That was why I was to be sure to take her.

I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring.

I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache.

Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning.

The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy.

There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring were solid with people.

I heard the rocket and I knew I could not get into the ring in time to see the bulls come in, so I shoved through the crowd to the fence.

I was pushed close against the planks of the fence.

Between the two fences of the runway the police were clearing the crowd along.

They walked or trotted on into the bull-ring.

Then people commenced to come running.

A drunk slipped and fell.

Two policemen grabbed him and rushed him over to the fence.

The crowd were running fast now.

There was a great shout from the crowd, and putting my head through between the boards I saw the bulls just coming out of the street into the long running pen.

They were going fast and gaining on the crowd.

Just then another drunk started out from the fence with a blouse in his hands.

He wanted to do capework with the bulls.

The two policemen tore out, collared him, one hit him with a club, and they dragged him against the fence and stood flattened out against the fence as the last of the crowd and the bulls went by.

There were so many people running ahead of the bulls that the mass thickened and slowed up going through the gate into the ring, and as the bulls passed, galloping together, heavy, muddy-sided, horns swinging, one shot ahead, caught a man in the running crowd in the back and lifted him in the air.

Both the man's arms were by his sides, his head went back as the horn went in, and the bull lifted him and then dropped him.

The bull picked another man running in front, but the man disappeared into the crowd, and the crowd was through the gate and into the ring with the bulls behind them.

The red door of the ring went shut, the crowd on the outside balconies of the bull-ring were pressing through to the inside, there was a shout, then another shout.

The man who had been gored lay face down in the trampled mud.

People climbed over the fence, and I could not see the man because the crowd was so thick around him.

From inside the ring came the shouts.

Each shout meant a charge by some bull into the crowd.

You could tell by the degree of intensity in the shout how bad a thing it was that was happening.

Then the rocket went up that meant the steers had gotten the bulls out of the ring and into the corrals.

I left the fence and started back toward the town.

Back in the town I went to the café to have a second coffee and some buttered toast.

The waiters were sweeping out the café and mopping off the tables.

One came over and took my order.

"Anything happen at the encierro (西语，把牛圈入牛栏)?"

"I didn't see it all. One man was badly cogido (西语，牴伤)."

"Where?"

"Here." I put one hand on the small of my back and the other on my chest, where it looked as though the horn must have come through.

The waiter nodded his head and swept the crumbs from the table with his cloth.

"Badly cogido," he said. "All for sport. All for pleasure."

He went away and came back with the long-handled coffee and milk pots.

He poured the milk and coffee.

It came out of the long spouts in two streams into the big cup. The waiter nodded his head. "Badly cogido through the back," he said.

He put the pots down on the table and sat down in the chair at the table.

"A big horn wound. All for fun. Just for fun. What do you think of that?"

"I don't know."

"That's it. All for fun. Fun, you understand."

"You're not an aficionado?"

"Me? What are bulls? Animals. Brute animals."

He stood up and put his hand on the small of his back.

"Right through the back. A cornada (西语，动物角牴的伤) right through the back. For fun — you understand."

He shook his head and walked away, carrying the coffee-pots.

Two men were going by in the street.

The waiter shouted to them. They were grave-looking.

One shook his head. "Muerto (西语，死了) !" he called.

The waiter nodded his head. The two men went on.

They were on some errand. The waiter came over to my table.

"You hear? Muerto. Dead. He's dead. With a horn through him. All for morning fun. Es muy flamenco (西语，真是非常地弗朗明科)."

"It's bad."

"Not for me," the waiter said. "No fun in that for me."

Later in the day we learned that the man who was killed was named Vicente Girones, and came from near Tafalla.

The next day in the paper we read that he was twenty-eight years old, and had a farm, a wife, and two children.

He had continued to come to the fiesta each year after he was married.

The next day his wife came in from Tafalla to be with the body, and the day after there was a service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway-station by members of the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla.

The drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and two children...

Behind them marched all the members of the dancing and drinking societies of Pamplona, Estella, Tafalla, and Sanguesa who could stay over for the funeral.

The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railway carriage.

The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla.

The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Taberno, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon.

His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs,

shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona.