“Come on up to the house and we’ll eat,” Zurito said. * * * * * Manuel stood in the patio de caballos waiting for the Charlie Chaplins to be over. Zurito stood beside him. Where they stood it was dark. The high door that led into the bull-ring was shut. Above them they heard a shout, then another shout of laughter. Then there was silence. Manuel liked the smell of the stables about the patio de caballos. It smelt good in the dark. There was another roar from the arena and then applause, prolonged applause, going on and on. “You ever seen these fellows?” Zurito asked, big and looming beside Manuel in the dark. “No,” Manuel said. “They’re pretty funny.” Zurito said. He smiled to himself in the dark. The high, double, tight-fitting door into the bull-ring swung open and Manuel saw the ring in the hard light of the arc-lights, the plaza, dark all the way around, rising high; around the edge of the ring were running and bowing two men dressed like tramps, followed by a third in the uniform of a hotel bell-boy who stooped and picked up the hats and canes thrown down onto the sand and tossed them back up into the darkness. The electric light went on in the patio. “I’ll climb onto one of those ponies while you collect the kids,” Zurito said. Behind them came the jingle of the mules, coming out to go into the arena and be hitched onto the dead bull. The members of the cuadrilla, who had been watching the burlesque from the runway between the barrera and the seats, came walking back and stood in a group talking, under the electric light in the patio. A good-looking lad in a silver-and-orange suit came up to Manuel and smiled. “I’m Hernandez,” he said and put out his hand. Manuel shook it. “They’re regular elephants we’ve got to-night,” the boy said cheerfully. “They’re big ones with horns,” Manuel agreed. “You drew the worst lot,” the boy said. “That’s all right,” Manuel said. “The bigger they are, the more meat for the poor.” “Where did you get that one?” Hernandez grinned. “That’s an old one,” Manuel said. “You line up your cuadrilla, so I can see what I’ve got.” “You’ve got some good kids,” Hernandez said. He was very cheerful. He had been on twice before in nocturnals and was beginning to get a following in Madrid. He was happy the fight would start in a few minutes. “Where are the pics?” Manuel asked. “They’re back in the corrals fighting about who gets the beautiful horses,” Hernandez grinned. The mules came through the gate in a rush, the whips snapping, bells jangling and the young bull ploughing a furrow of sand. They formed up for the paseo as soon as the bull had gone through. Manuel and Hernandez stood in front. The youths of the cuadrillas were behind, their heavy capes furled over their arms. In back, the four picadors, mounted, holding their steel-tipped push-poles erect in the half-dark of the corral.