III

The pump-man roomed with Jenkins, the third officer, in the

superstructure, amidships. The passenger sometimes, as on this night,

looked in there.

Jenkins was an Englishman, and of him they told the story that when he

first came to the country half the space in his yellow tin trunk was

taken up with cakes of Pears' soap. Somebody had told him that he

couldn't buy any in the United States. He still had some of his original

load of soap, and now hauled the tin trunk out from under his bunk, took

out a cake and made a lather, with which he slicked down his thin, sandy

hair, smoothing it, the while he gossiped cheerfully with Kieran and the

passenger, on each side of the middle parting until it made a straight

line between the bottom of his ears to his eyebrows. His ears were stuck

high up on the side of his head--a sign of high intelligence, he used to

say.

Jenkins had to go on watch at midnight, and so now he was getting ready

to turn in. The third officer had a minute way of telling his little

experiences, to which Kieran always listened patiently. If Kieran had

not, Jenkins would have had no audience at all, for the second officer,

a Norwegian, and the first officer, a Vermont Yankee, had no use for any

Englishman whatever; and besides that he was only the third officer.

The pump-man had sympathy for Jenkins, but not so much that he would sit

and listen while Jenkins talked himself to sleep; so, once he saw

Jenkins into his bunk, Kieran used to fly for the open deck.

And here it was the passenger joined him, pacing the long gangway. The

passenger turned and they paced together.

The sound of the captain's voice floated down from the bridge. The

passenger, who had small use for the captain, suggested that they go

forward; and so they made for the bow of the ship and ascended the

ladder to the forec's'le head, and here, after a decent interval, to

allow Kieran to absorb the beauty of the tropic night, the passenger

said, "How about that bull-fight in Peru?"

"Oh-h--" said Kieran, and after a silence went on to say:

"Well, the day of the bull-fight came, and that afternoon the

bull-fighters marched into the ring; and in their smooth-fitting

tights--black, white, green, pink, blue, purple, all colors--their short

jackets, puffed-out shirts, with the queer little hats and the neat

black slippers, well-built fellows, all of them--they made a great

showing.

"They marched once around the ring, and then Torellas, who was leading

them, halted in front of the Mayor's box and asked permission to kill

the bull, and the Mayor, of course, said yes. Then, marching to the

opposite side of the ring, to where was the President of Peru in the

biggest box of all, with hangings of red and gold, and two American

rear-admirals of the fleet on either side of him, Torellas saluted, and

tossed up his hat, then his cloak, to the President. And as he did so,

around the ring the less famous bull-fighters were picking out friends

or great people and to them tossing their hats, by way of doing them

honor. Cogan tossed his up among the American blue-jackets, and they,

not knowing he wasn't a Peruvian, didn't know what to make of it, but

they scuffled for it just the same.

"Torellas was in white tights with black slippers. A small gold cross

was pinned to the breast of his fine white shirt. As he stepped back

from the President's box he touched a white silk handkerchief to his

lips, almost like a woman, but those graceful little movements were as

much a part of him as were his strength and nerve. Cogan could hear

women in the seats behind him whispering of the beauty of him. Until

then it had never occurred to Cogan that the matador was any

professional beauty. He surely was a finely developed fellow, a good

deal of a man to look at, but for the beauty! No, he wasn't

handsome--Cogan took another look--but any man would say a great looking

one.

"The ring was now clear, with the bull-fighters hidden behind the

stockade, or tucked away in the little places of refuge built against

the inside of the stockade. These places of refuge were for the

bull-fighters to run into when chased by a bull; and there were half a

dozen of them, of heavy planking and about as high as a man's chest,

with an entrance wide enough for a man, but not for a bull's horns.

Cogan picked out his particular refuge because just above it, in front

seats, were the Rocas and Guavera.

"It was now time for the bull-fight to begin, but this was such an

extraordinary occasion that a compliment had first to be paid to the

visiting fleet, so the Peruvian band played our national hymn, and at

the first note every American blue-jacket there stood to attention.

Cogan felt as proud as could be of them, in their fresh-washed suits of

muster white with the beautiful blue collars and cuffs. Section after

section was piled solid with them, and here and there Cogan saw an old

shipmate. Just to look at them made Cogan homesick. Four thousand strong

they stood stiff as statues to attention, right arms across body and

caps held to their left breasts, while the 'Star-Spangled Banner' was

played.

"It was all fine; and the 'Star-Spangled Banner' made such a hit that

the Peruvian band played it again. And fine musicians they were, too,

only as they played it, trying to be terribly respectful, it sounded

like a funeral march. But, through it all, our blue-jackets, four

thousand strong, stood frozen to attention in their beautiful suits of

white with the blue trimmings and their caps held respectfully to their

breasts.

"Great! Cogan could hear them all about him saying how noble and

affecting. And it was--believe me, it was. And again that fine band

arose to play the 'Star-Spangled Banner,' but this time our brave

blue-jackets also arose, four thousand strong, in the beautiful muster

white suits, and yelled as one--'Oh, cut it out, cut out any more music

and bring on the bull.' And they brought on the bull.

"But first a bugle call rang out, and into the ring came the mounted

capeador. And it was Juan, and he was riding his Argentine roan. And he

took his station in the middle of the ring, and there he waited, in his

left hand the reins, and in his right, drooping below his stirrup, a

scarlet cape. Great cheers greeted him; and all around the ring Cogan

could hear the residents from the high one in the box with the American

admirals, from the President down, explaining that this was their famous

mounted capeador, Juan Roca, and to have an eye out for Juan's

unparalleled skill and his bravery--and did they notice that Juan wore

no iron, nor even leather protection to his legs? Everyone called him

Juan, as though he was an old friend. Cogan remembered how, on that

night in Colon, the hat dealer was as proud as could be of his brother;

but no more proud, he now saw, than was everybody here in Lima.

"A barrier of light boarding was raised, and there was the bull, a big,

chocolate colored fellow, with heavy shoulders and horns that must have

spread three feet. Again Cogan could hear the residents explaining to

their American guests that this was one of a famous lot of bulls bred

especially for the ring, from the ranch of Don Vicente Guillen, and for

this afternoon's sport the government had provided six of these bulls,

paying fifteen hundred pesos--about fifteen hundred dollars--in gold for

them, and also that the bulls had been fed on half rations for the past

forty-eight hours to make them of a high eagerness for this most widely

advertised combat.

"Back there in the half light under the shed, Cogan could see the big

bull weaving his head from side to side and swaying on his forelegs as

he looked out on the ring. The sudden light probably blinded him, for he

didn't seem to see, not for a few seconds at least, the scarlet cape

Juan was holding up. But when he did! Out he came, head on, for Juan.

And Juan stayed there with not a move, until Cogan thought the bull

surely had him hooked. But no. At arm's length, and in front of the

flaming eyes, Juan flirted the cape, and still in front of the blazing

eyes he held it, and behind him, past his horse's withers, he whipped

it, and with that, with but a single word, and drawing in on his reins,

he seemed to lift his horse off the ground, to whirl him on his hind

heels, almost without moving from his tracks; and the bull rushed on by.

"Juan spurred his horse, waved the scarlet cape aloft, took up a new

position, and the people cheered. And again cheered as the bull charged,

for once more Juan was safe away. Oh, Juan was the brave one! And Juan

looked toward the other bull-fighters, as if to say: 'And now is not

this Argentine a horse to talk about?' And that horse Juan patted and

whispered to, and laughed and sang to him; and with the reins taut in

the left hand and the flaming cape always in his right, he did as he

pleased with that bull. He talked to the bull, too, but differently--he

knew how--to make him angry, and the bull frothed and tore up the sand

to get at him, and a dozen times it looked as if the bull would bowl

over and gore both the horse and Juan, but always just in time Juan

flashed the red cape, and always he and the wonderful horse would come

safe away. Juan was certainly the champion horseman of all that Cogan

had ever seen. And when Juan rode out of the ring and the bull stood

there and looked after him, bewildered like, Cogan didn't half blame

him, for the pair of them, Juan and his horse, certainly made a tough

combination.

"And then into the ring came the capeadors on foot. Cogan took part with

these. They were to play the bull on foot as Juan had been playing him

on horseback, but instead of one there were eight of them in the ring

together. And one after the other, five, ten, or a dozen paces away,

they waved a red cape in front of the bull, at which he glared and

lowered his head and charged; but always he charged in one way, head

down and eyes only for the red cape, and there was the way the man beat

the brute. The bull had his speed, strength, endurance, but nothing

else. Once he put his head down he had eyes only for the red cape, and

so long as the capeador handled his cape and himself with speed and

skill, and no accident happened, he might count on getting safe away.

"Cogan only tried to repeat in the ring this day what he had been doing

for weeks in practice. As the bull came charging, he used the cape to

lead him to one side, allowing just room enough for the horns to pass.

If he waited too long before he turned the bull, of course it would mean

trouble; but if he turned the bull too soon, it would be clumsy.

Whatever else he did the bull-fighter must not be clumsy. The first time

he tried it, Cogan didn't do a good job--the bull was faster than he

realized, and he had to run for one of the little places of refuge with

the bull after him. Then the crowd roared, or they yelled 'Malo, malo,'

which is the same as if a crowd of baseball fans yelled 'Rotten,

rotten!' Next time Cogan did better, and then it was 'Bueno, bueno!'

from everybody. Possibly the applause was all the louder because by this

time the rumor had spread that he was not only a new-comer, a stranger,

an American, but also a sailor, and these four thousand American sailors

were this day the guests of the nation. Cogan could not help looking up

to Valera and her father after he had done his good turn, and was

thrilled to see them both cheering and smiling at him.

"So far it was clever, neat work on the part of the capeadors, but

nothing wonderful, nothing to match Juan's work on the horse. The crowd

wanted livelier action, and there were cries of 'Torellas! Torellas!'

The bugle sounded, and Torellas came. 'Ah-h,' sighed they--you could

hear them--'now we shall see something.' Torellas, holding the red cape

before him, lured the bull, turned him skilfully, and, spinning on his

heel, tempted the bull to wheel and charge again, and when the bull did

so, and yet again and again, Torellas, holding him always at arm's

length, swung him back and forth, himself retreating a step at a time,

and with every step the bull plunging on after him. It was just as if he

were snapping the bull on the end of the cape, snapping him back and

forth across his path, as he made his way backward. Torellas was never

so far away but what the bull, with one unexpected lunge, would get him.

But Torellas kept the bull too well in hand for any accidental lunge. At

short range he kept him going, drawing him half way across the ring at

one time, until at last the bull himself, seeming to understand that he

was being fooled, stopped short, and Torellas pulled up, too, and let

his cape hang loosely by his side; but as he did so, instantly and at

full tilt at Torellas went the bull again; but that seeming carelessness

on the part of Torellas was part of his play. With a light upward bound,

as the bull lowered his head to gore him, Torellas stepped between the

horns, and when the great head came up, with the spring of his leap to

the toss of the bull's head, away he went sailing, twenty feet beyond

the bull and landing like a breath of air on his feet.

"While the people were still making the air explode with their applause,

Cogan saw Torellas look wistfully up to where Valera and her people sat.

Cogan looked too. She, leaning back between her mother and Señor

Guavera, with her face cloaked, was almost hidden. Her mother and

Guavera were talking across her as if all this bull-fighting was of all

in the world the thing least interesting to them. Cogan looked back to

the matador. He was bowing, even smiling, to the audience, but Cogan,

who was close enough to mark every line of his face, saw that he was

getting no great joy of his triumph.

"Torellas left the ring, and the banderilleros took possession. These

were the men with the wooden stakes of the length of a man's arm and

the thickness of a thumb, and wrapped around in gay colored paper

ribbon streamers, and at one end a thin iron spike about as long as a

man's little finger. The banderilleros had to stand in front of the

bull, with a stake in each hand, and, as he charged, to step in between

his horns and reach over and plant a stake on each side of his neck.

'It is most simple,' explained Ferrero, as he left Cogan to do his

part--'only--surely--we must not make mistake.' And Cogan could not help

thinking that bull-fighting was like a thousand other games, a man

mustn't make mistakes.

"Ferrero, who was rated the best banderillero in Peru, first faced the

bull. He held his stakes up near the end furthest from the bull, to get

as much distance at the start as possible, though it wasn't that alone

which saved him from the bull's rush. That helped, but the bull stopping

up short when he felt the spikes going into his neck, was what Ferrero

reckoned on, when it wasn't done too late. An instant after the stakes

were planted in his neck, the bull continued his charge, but by then

Ferrero was out of the way.

"Cogan, watching Ferrero and his companions from his retreat, began to

get the bull-fighting fever. He thought he would like to try the

banderillero's game--that is, after he'd had a few weeks' training at

it. These were fine athletes--and something more. They were risking

their lives every minute.

"They leaped like panthers. The jabbing in of the stakes and the

wiggling aside to escape the bull's plunge, it was like one movement.

Soon the bull was going round the ring, with five or six pairs of

banderillas decorating his neck. Of these Ferrero had planted the first

and last pair. When he came back to his place in the refuge beside

Cogan, the air was quivering with buenos. 'Buenos!' said Cogan also to

him. 'Not bad--no.' said Ferrero very well pleased.

"But the great thing was to come. 'El matador, el matador! Torellas,

Torellas,' they were shouting. And again Torellas came. He crossed the

ring, with his even, unhurried walk to Cogan's place of refuge, and

asked for his cape--'You will allow me--please--yes? Gracias, señor,'

and, with the one word 'Americano,' and a nod of his head toward Cogan,

Torellas held the cape to the nearest section of American blue-jackets

who had been wondering, ever since the word had been passed, which was

the American among the bull-fighters. Cogan, of course, was dressed like

any other bull-fighter, and being dark-haired and pretty well tanned

wasn't to be picked out easily, especially as he buried himself to the

eyes in his place of refuge. He didn't want to be recognized--not then,

and so he stayed hid away, and so it was Ferrero, in the same refuge

with Cogan, but looming above him, who was cheered by the many

blue-jackets for their countryman. And Ferrero gleefully bowed and bowed

again to their applause.

"Torellas wrapped the cape around his left forearm. He then took from an

attendant and gripped in his right hand the espada, the short sword,

with which he was to give the bull the finishing stroke.

"Now, to Cogan's way of thinking, Ferrero and the other banderilleros

took a chance when they placed their beribboned stakes, but they had the

length of their stakes the start of the bull, and they did not have to

linger over doing it. A light touch, the stakes were in, and they were

off. But to drive a knife through twelve or fourteen inches of bull

gristle! Cogan pictured himself walking into a butcher's shop, picking

out twelve or fourteen inches of tough gristle and driving a knife

through it. He could do it, of course he could, or any man, but he would

have to brace legs and back to get enough power in the stroke. But to

stop to brace for that stroke and a rampant seventeen-hundred-pound bull

piling down on top of you, and to pick out a spot on his neck no bigger

than a fifty-cent piece! And if you missed your spot! Or were a little

bit slow! Even in being too soon there was danger, if you could imagine

a man being too quick.

"That was how Cogan looked at it, and he felt himself worrying for

Torellas. He looked toward the Rocas. The mother and Guavera were no

longer talking, and Valera was again drawn back between them, but her

father was leaning well forward with eyes fixed on Torellas.

"There was great shouting when Torellas faced the bull--and then a great

silence. Torellas moved his cape-draped forearm--up, down, coaxingly.

The bull headed for him. Torellas stepped aside. The bull passed on and

wheeled. Torellas took half a dozen dancing steps. The bull followed.

Torellas waved his arm, the bull charged. Torellas leaped easily to one

side. The bull passed on. More light play, a charge, another charge, yet

another, all beautiful athletic play, and Torellas had worked his way

across the ring to near the place of refuge where Cogan and Ferrero

were. This also brought the bull under the seats of the Rocas. Cogan,

studying the matador's face, had a feeling that he had drawn the bull

there purposely. It was as if he had said to her up there on the seats:

'Here--here is the product of my highest skill. To do this well I have

dedicated my abounding youth. I offer them a sacrifice to you.' So Cogan

viewed it. Cogan, to be sure, had a sympathy for Torellas, had liked him

from the first. Torellas--he was one who adventured to give the spirit

play as now; and Cogan would have liked just then to be in the shoes of

Torellas.

"The bull was at last properly worked up. Torellas took his final stand.

His feet were well apart, but not too far apart, body and legs set so

that he could have leaped instantly forward, backward, sideways. Cogan,

watching, thought what a painting, or better, what a bit of sculpture

could have been made of him so. He was standing on the balls of his

feet, with his torso canted slightly forward from the waist. His head

was forward, too, but inclining a little to one side, toward his right

shoulder. His eyes were so narrowed that they could hardly be seen, but

the glitter of them was plain enough. The sword up to this time he held

loose in his right hand, palm up and shoulder-high, with the blade

horizontal, the point toward the bull. His left arm held forward, well

clear of the body, was the final effect in the miracle of his balance.

Standing like that, he was planted solidly enough on the earth, but he

gave out, too, such an impression of energy, force, power bottled up,

that he made you feel that he could fly if he tried.

"Standing so, he didn't seem to breathe. But the crowd were breathing

for him. From the seats behind him Cogan could hear, almost feel, their

hot breaths.

"The bull now stopped and studied this last enemy. The others had come

at him in groups, but here was one all alone.

"The bull stood with half-lowered head, weaving it from side to side,

like when from behind the barrier he first appeared to the crowd. He

eyed the red cape. It must have flamed like blood in the sun to him. His

nostrils, his eyes, were flaming like blood, too. He ceased his weaving,

raised, lowered his head, and bounded toward Torellas. And everybody

there knew that it was the bull or the matador this time. The red cape

of the matador seemed to leap forward, no loose ends now for a flying

horn to catch, but a tight roll around the matador's left forearm.

Standing now four feet away Torellas, to blind the charging bull as the

capeadors had done, had to step close in. And now he was close in and

his forearm was across the bull's forehead. It was hard to follow, the

action was so fast, but Cogan saw that Torellas was already between his

horns. Cogan looked for the flash of the heavy blade, but already

Torellas' right arm had gone forward, that eye of his had marked the

little vital spot, and, as the bull lowered his head and lunged to gore

him, the blade was driven forward, and onto the point of it rushed the

bull. The blade went home--clear to the hilt--eighteen inches or so.

Before the people could clear their choked-up throats to applaud, before

many could realize what had happened, the bull was stumbling to his

knees and Torellas was unwrapping the cape from his left forearm. One

long, thundering in-and-out breath and they were mobbing Torellas with

applause.

"The bull rolled from side to side on his knees, tried to balance

himself there for four, five, six seconds, and then rolled over. He half

lifted his head from the sand, he kicked, once, twice, again, and then

the head fell back, a quiver, and he lay limp. It was sad in a way.

"A bugle rang out. Two Peruvian boys came galloping in on horses. The

bugle sounded again, they took a bridle hitch on the bull and went

galloping out of the ring, bugles going and the bull dragging behind.

The noise and whirl of it made Cogan think of a fire-engine coming down

the middle of a street up home.

"As the bull was hauled out, Cogan felt a new sorrow for him. Up to that

last stroke there was a chance that he would hurt somebody, but he

hadn't killed or hurt anybody, and now, when he was dragged out dead,

Cogan felt half sad. And he said as much to Ferrero.

"Ferrero looked at him puzzled. 'Such ideas you have in your country?

Why? Leesen now, my friend, I also have a sadness, but consider if you

was a bull, or I was a bull. Would you prefair to go to your death in a

bull-ring or to be led to a man who demolished you on the temple with an

axe, or cut your throat with a long knife--a man in a white garment?

Which?'

"Cogan said that if he was a bull, no doubt he'd prefer the bull-ring,

but would the bull?

"'Of a certainty, yes--if he was a blooded bull--yes,' said Ferrero. 'A

high class bull always. He should be keeled no other way. No. And in the

ring there was always a hope to make man pay--but in a

slaughter-house--p-ff-f. And some day, my friend, the bull will obtain

his revenge. Have no doubt of it. Bull-fighters die one way--all

matadors surely. Let them attend to it long enough and no fear--some

day the bull shall get heem. View Torellas now. He is strong, brave,

agile, superb, triumphant as he stands there, let him continue and some

day a slip shall come and he shall go.'

"Cogan said no doubt, at the same time wishing he were in the place of

Torellas. The matador--he had had his supreme moment.

"Cogan looked up to the Roca's party. Her father was still wildly

cheering Torellas. Her mother and Guavera were applauding, too, but

their applause did not have the quality of Señor Roca's. Valera's face

was still hidden by her fan. Cogan looked to the matador. He seemed to

be limp, apathetic. 'The reaction,' Cogan thought, and Torellas, being

so young and such a high-strung fellow, maybe it was only natural, and

yet, thinking a moment later, it had come rather soon for an athlete in

his fine condition.

"In the sand lay the sword with which he had killed the bull, and while

the people were cheering, stamping, hurling words of applause,

endearment, love, at Torellas, he picked it up. Already the President of

the Republic was standing up in his box with the cloak and hat of the

master, to hand them back to him with words of appreciation, and to him

and the crowd Torellas was bowing.

"Cogan, with eyes only for Torellas and the Rocas, did not see the

beginning of what happened next. He first heard a cry, then a loud voice

or two, then a hundred, a thousand voices. He turned. The gate which

held the next bull in confinement had been opened or else it had burst

out. The gateman was there, but with despairing hands on high, and

across the ring the fresh bull was coming. Torellas was standing with

his back to the gate, and not twenty feet from it, almost in the spot

where he had killed his bull, and wiping the sword blade in a fold of

Cogan's cape, which he was now holding loosely. He was looking up at the

Rocas and seemed at first not to hear the cries. He turned--slowly, with

horrible slowness, Cogan thought, when he recalled how fast he could

move when he wanted to.

"He turned too slowly. The bull caught him sideways, and when he came

down, it was astraddle of the bull's back, from which he fell to the

sand beside the bull, who had wheeled and was waiting. He must have been

stunned when he landed, for the sword and cape had fallen from him, and

he lay motionless. The bull lunged like lightning. The horn went into

the left thigh, just above the knee, and, not done then, the bull ripped

on upward with that same horn until it came out under the matador's left

breast.

"The white tights turned red. The bull was lowering his head to gore him

again, but Ferrero had leaped from his place of refuge. Cogan was with

him. Ferrero picked up the cape and flouted it in the bull's eyes. The

bull lifted his head from Torellas, looked at the cape, and charged. And

as he did, Cogan snatched up the matador's sword and waited. The bull

charged past Ferrero, then, wheeling quickly, made again for Torellas,

and his head was lowered to gore again. Ferrero got desperate and threw

the cape from him, and it caught on the horns, and while the bull was

entangled and enraged afresh, Cogan stepped close, picked out the little

spot the size of a fifty-cent piece at the head of the spine, stood on

his toes and came down with all his force. It wasn't any approved

matador's stroke, for Cogan, standing behind instead of in front of the

bull's horns, drove home in just the reverse fashion, but it wasn't a

bad stroke at that. The knife went home. The bull rolled over, and Cogan

stood there and looked and looked. Nobody was more surprised than he.

Not once in ten times he was saying to himself could he have done it in

cold blood. Only when Ferrero pulled him by the arm did he think to turn

and bow with the banderillero to the cheering audience, especially to

some blue-jackets who had now recognized him as an old shipmate and were

calling him by name--hundreds of them.

"In the middle of the excitement he looked up to see how Valera was

taking it. She and her father were both leaning far over the rail toward

him--he with both arms extended and yelling, she with her handkerchief

pressed to her lips. Her eyes met Cogan's, and Cogan was satisfied. His

little Valera of the beach was on deck again. No matter about the rest.

That must have been a full minute after it happened and after the

surgeon had called out 'It is well. Torellas will live!'

"But the bull-fighters in the ring did not believe that all was well.

'Torellas! Oh, Torellas!' they were saying, and some were shedding

tears, as they carried him to the dressing-room. Torellas was now

conscious. He smiled at Ferrero, and he was smiling while they were

undressing him, and he took Cogan's hand and held it while the others

were telling him how it was. Not until the surgeon said, 'You will live,

but your bull-fighting days are done,' did he lose his nerve. He had

been pale, but he went paler then. The globes of sweat collected on his

forehead. 'Oh, no, no, doctor!' he cried and fainted.

"That night Cogan slipped away from a party of American blue-jackets who

wanted to paint Lima in high colors for him, and went down to see

Torellas, who had been taken to his home, a fine, large house on a wide

street. A crowd was in the street, waiting for word of his condition.

"Ferrero met him at the door. 'They wait for you, good friend.'

"'They? Who?'

"'Oh, you shall see.' And he led Cogan to the second floor, to where a

fine suite of rooms opened from the wide hall. Her father and Juan were

in the outer room.

"These two clasped him to their bosoms. 'You brave one,' said her

father--and 'Bueno Americano!'--said Uncle Juan, and patted him on the

head as if he were a son. 'He will live--Oh, be sure of that. But never

will he fight bulls again. Never, never. And that is sad. But we have

him. Let us not mourn. And you'--Juan raised both hands high--'you and

Torellas--I love you both.'

"Cogan thought he heard her voice, the voice which never in his life he

had heard, and hesitated. 'Proceed,' said her father, and pushed him

toward the door of the middle room. 'She is there. And Tina--you

remember Tina--that night in Colon? She is also there. The señora'--he

looked at Juan and Juan smiled back at him--'she is too fatigued to

come, but Tina came.'

"Cogan softly crossed the second room, but paused on the threshold of

the inner room. He saw a great, stout woman back to. He knew her--Tina.

He looked further, and under the half light saw the face of the matador.

She was beside the bed. He could not see her face, but he heard her

voice, and it was over her shoulder that he saw the matador's face.

"There were murmured words in Spanish which he did not understand, and

then a phrase at which he could guess, then words which there was no

mistaking, and which were not for him or any other man to hear. He

backed out.

"Juan, Ferrero, and her father were still at the outer door of the outer

room. They were not looking. He saw that from this middle room a window

led on to a balcony. He stepped through the window, found a post,

dropped to the ground, made his way through the garden in the rear, and

so on to a back street. He ran on--one street, another, a dozen, and

then uphill to a wall which he seemed to know. He looked about, and saw

that near by was the monastery where he had been given his first

breakfast in Lima. It was the same old wall.

"He climbed the wall and sat there. He had been sitting so that morning

when the pretty flower girl had tossed him the blue flower--blue as the

sky. Only now it was night and no one to see and smile. He looked up to

the sky, the night sky of the tropics. The twisted Southern Cross shone

on him. He turned and faced the north.

"Somewhere he could hear a band playing. In one of the parks probably,

and there would be leaves rustling there, and the scent of flowers, and

the señoritas walking with their mothers, while the young men hung

around the edges, striving to get a word, a look. And there would be the

arched jets of a fountain playing under colored lights, and back in

Portland, Oregon, by this time was perhaps Tommie Jones married to his

plump waitress.

"It was a good band--playing something he had never heard before, but

something very soothing. He looked toward the Pacific. He knew where the

harbor of Callao should lie, and in the middle of the harbor he could

see them, one great cluster of lights, the lights of the battle fleet.

And there were the fleet's search-lights playing on the great stone

pier.

"The band was playing again--something fine.

"And then the monastery bell tolled. And presently he heard a

chanting--a slow sad chanting! And then the chanting also died away.

"He had been lying on the wall with his hat in his hand and staring up

at the sky. Now he sat up, put on his hat, took another look to the

lights in the harbor, and hummed softly the Philippine service song--

"It's home, boy, home, it's home you ought to be."

"And you've no kick coming. Dreams dreams, always dreams, but you've had

your hour, too.' He took another look at the lights of the

fleet--another to the lights of the city below him--'Good night, Lima,'

he whispered, and dropped off the wall."

The pump-man had begun his story this evening while sitting with back to

the rail and feet stretched out on the deck before him. He finished

while lying on his back, hands clasped under the back of his head, and

wide eyes on the sky.

The passenger leaned on the rail, studied the stem of the ship, and

listened to the surge of back wash against the ship's bow as she drove

on. Abeam, the young moon drooped.

Kieran said nothing more. The passenger nothing for a long time. Then it

was:

"And they were married?"

"I don't know--Cogan didn't wait to see--but of course."

"Of course," echoed the passenger, and in silence resumed his study of

the ship's bow cutting through the little seas.