“I’ll not go till I have seen the bull fights, professor,” asserted Frank Merriwell, obstinately. “Why, what did you think I rushed you off to Madrid for? Did you fancy it was because I was so eager to see this city? Well, you were mistaken. I heard that the bull fighting season was at its height here, and I came for the sole purpose of witnessing the spectacle.”
The professor groaned and sank into a chair, mopping his face with a handkerchief.
“I have thought you a man, Frank,” he said, sadly; “but I see you are still a boy, and a very wayward, unruly and unreasonable boy, at that.”
“I’ll get to be a man soon enough, professor. What’s the use to decay before your time! Come, come! brace up, and say you will go with us to see the bull fights. I secured seats two days ago.”
“What?”
The little man shot up from his chair, glaring at the boy.
“You dared to do such a thing without my consent?” he roared. “You should be ashamed of yourself! How much did the seats cost?”
“One hundred reals each.”
“Whoop!” shouted the professor, staggering. “Why didn’t you buy out the whole bull ring? Wow! One hundred reals each! Three hundred reals! How much is that, anyway? Why didn’t you start a bull ring of your own! Great Homer! But what made you go in for such cheap seats?” he cried, with biting sarcasm. “Why didn’t you get a few seats set with diamonds and stuffed with swan’s-down! Shades of Cicero! Three hundred reals! How much is that, anyway?”
“Oh, about three doubloons.”