NEXT morning we were awakened by a great racket. There was a procession
coming down the street, a number of men in very gay clothes followed
by a large crowd of admiring ladies and cheering children. I asked the
Doctor who they were.
“They are the bullfighters,” he said. “There is to be a bullfight
to-morrow.”
“What is a bullfight?” I asked.
To my great surprise the Doctor got red in the face with anger. It
reminded me of the time when he had spoken of the lions and tigers in
his private zoo.
“A bullfight is a stupid, cruel, disgusting business,” said he. “These
Spanish people are most lovable and hospitable folk. How they can enjoy
these wretched bullfights is a thing I could never understand.”
Then the Doctor went on to explain to me how a bull was first made very
angry by teasing and then allowed to run into a circus where men came
out with red cloaks, waved them at him, and ran away. Next the bull was
allowed to tire himself out by tossing and killing a lot of poor, old,
broken-down horses who couldn’t defend themselves. Then, when the bull
was thoroughly out of breath and wearied by this, a man came out with a
sword and killed the bull.
“Every Sunday,” said the Doctor, “in almost every big town in Spain
there are six bulls killed like that and as many horses.”
“But aren’t the men ever killed by the bull?” I asked.
“Unfortunately very seldom,” said he. “A bull is not nearly as
dangerous as he looks, even when he’s angry, if you are only quick on
your feet and don’t lose your head. These bullfighters are very clever
and nimble. And the people, especially the Spanish ladies, think no
end of them. A famous bullfighter (or matador, as they call them) is
a more important man in Spain than a king—Here comes another crowd of
them round the corner, look. See the girls throwing kisses to them.
Ridiculous business!”
At that moment our friend the bed-maker came out to see the procession
go past. And while he was wishing us good morning and enquiring how
we had slept, a friend of his walked up and joined us. The bed-maker
introduced this friend to us as Don Enrique Cardenas.
Don Enrique when he heard where we were from, spoke to us in English.
He appeared to be a well-educated, gentlemanly sort of person.
“And you go to see the bullfight to-morrow, yes?” he asked the Doctor
pleasantly.
“Certainly not,” said John Dolittle firmly. “I don’t like
bullfights—cruel, cowardly shows.”
Don Enrique nearly exploded. I never saw a man get so excited. He told
the Doctor that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He said
bullfighting was a noble sport and that the matadors were the bravest
men in the world.
“Oh, rubbish!” said the Doctor. “You never give the poor bull a chance.
It is only when he is all tired and dazed that your precious matadors
dare to try and kill him.”
I thought the Spaniard was going to strike the Doctor he got so angry.
While he was still spluttering to find words, the bed-maker came
between them and took the Doctor aside. He explained to John Dolittle
in a whisper that this Don Enrique Cardenas was a very important
person; that he it was who supplied the bulls—a special, strong black
kind—from his own farm for all the bullfights in the Capa Blancas. He
was a very rich man, the bed-maker said, a most important personage. He
mustn’t be allowed to take offense on any account.
I watched the Doctor’s face as the bed-maker finished, and I saw a
flash of boyish mischief come into his eyes as though an idea had
struck him. He turned to the angry Spaniard.
“Don Enrique,” he said, “you tell me your bullfighters are very
brave men and skilful. It seems I have offended you by saying that
bullfighting is a poor sport. What is the name of the best matador you
have for to-morrow’s show?”
“Pepito de Malaga,” said Don Enrique, “one of the greatest names, one
of the bravest men, in all Spain.”
“Very well,” said the Doctor, “I have a proposal to make to you. I
have never fought a bull in my life. Now supposing I were to go into
the ring to-morrow with Pepito de Malaga and any other matadors you
choose; and if I can do more tricks with a bull than they can, would
you promise to do something for me?”
Don Enrique threw back his head and laughed.
“Man,” he said, “you must be mad! You would be killed at once. One has
to be trained for years to become a proper bullfighter.”
“Supposing I were willing to take the risk of that—You are not afraid,
I take it, to accept my offer?”
The Spaniard frowned.
“Afraid!” he cried, “Sir, if you can beat Pepito de Malaga in the
bull-ring I’ll promise you anything it is possible for me to grant.”
“Very good,” said the Doctor, “now I understand that you are quite a
powerful man in these islands. If you wished to stop all bullfighting
here after to-morrow, you could do it, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Don Enrique proudly—“I could.”
“Well that is what I ask of you—if I win my wager,” said John Dolittle.
“If I can do more with angry bulls than can Pepito de Malaga, you are
to promise me that there shall never be another bullfight in the Capa
Blancas so long as you are alive to stop it. Is it a bargain?”
The Spaniard held out his hand.
“It is a bargain,” he said—“I promise. But I must warn you that you
are merely throwing your life away, for you will certainly be killed.
However, that is no more than you deserve for saying that bullfighting
is an unworthy sport. I will meet you here to-morrow morning if you
should wish to arrange any particulars. Good day, Sir.”
As the Spaniard turned and walked into the shop with the bed-maker,
Polynesia, who had been listening as usual, flew up on to my shoulder
and whispered in my ear,
“I have a plan. Get hold of Bumpo and come some place where the Doctor
can’t hear us. I want to talk to you.”
I nudged Bumpo’s elbow and we crossed the street and pretended to look
into a jeweler’s window; while the Doctor sat down upon his bed to lace
up his boots, the only part of his clothing he had taken off for the
night.
“Listen,” said Polynesia, “I’ve been breaking my head trying to think
up some way we can get money to buy those stores with; and at last I’ve
got it.”
“The money?” said Bumpo.
“No, stupid. The idea—to make the money with. Listen: the Doctor is
simply bound to win this game to-morrow, sure as you’re alive. Now all
we have to do is to make a side bet with these Spaniards—they’re great
on gambling—and the trick’s done.”
“What’s a side bet?” I asked.
“Oh I know what that is,” said Bumpo proudly. “We used to have lots of
them at Oxford when boat-racing was on. I go to Don Enrique and say,
‘I bet you a hundred pounds the Doctor wins.’ Then if he does win, Don
Enrique pays me a hundred pounds; and if he doesn’t, I have to pay Don
Enrique.”
“That’s the idea,” said Polynesia. “Only don’t say a hundred pounds:
say two-thousand five-hundred pesetas. Now come and find old Don
Ricky-ticky and try to look rich.”
So we crossed the street again and slipped into the bed-maker’s shop
while the Doctor was still busy with his boots.
“Don Enrique,” said Bumpo, “allow me to introduce myself. I am the
Crown Prince of Jolliginki. Would you care to have a small bet with me
on to-morrow’s bullfight?”
Don Enrique bowed.
“Why certainly,” he said, “I shall be delighted. But I must warn you
that you are bound to lose. How much?”
“Oh a mere truffle,” said Bumpo—“just for the fun of the thing, you
know. What do you say to three-thousand pesetas?”
“I agree,” said the Spaniard bowing once more. “I will meet you after
the bullfight to-morrow.”
“So that’s all right,” said Polynesia as we came out to join the
Doctor. “I feel as though quite a load had been taken off my mind.”
_THE EIGHTH CHAPTER_