“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.