Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him washing and changing in his room.
"Well," he said, "talk a lot of Spanish?"
"He was telling me about the bulls coming in tonight."
"Let's find the gang and go down."
"All right. They'll probably be at the café."
"Have you got tickets?"
"Yes. I got them for all the unloadings."
"What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw.
"It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down."
"Do they ever gore the steers?"
"Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them."
"Can't the steers do anything?"
"No. They're trying to make friends."
"What do they have them in for?"
"To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking their horns against the stone walls, or goring each other."
"Must be swell being a steer."
We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the café Iruña. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked sol, sol y sombra, and sombra, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta.
Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iruña extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett
