d chatting merrily at the small tables
outside. The sound of a guitar strumming softly in the distance mingled
with the clatter of chinaware and the babble of voices.

Somehow it made me think of my mother and father far away in Puddleby,
with their regular habits, the evening practise on the flute and the
rest--doing the same thing every day. I felt sort of sorry for them in
a way, because they missed the fun of this traveling life, where we
were doing something new all the time--even sleeping differently. But I
suppose if they had been invited to go to bed on a pavement in front
of a shop they wouldn't have cared for the idea at all. It is funny how
some people are.

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER. THE DOCTOR'S WAGER

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