AFTER the calling of “Speech! A speech from Billy Whiskers!” had died down some, Billy climbed up to a shelf of rock that protruded from the brow of a hill overlooking the lower stretch of land where the party was in progress. From this vantage point he could be seen and heard by all. The moment he stepped forward and began to speak, there was dead silence and not a horse or cow so much as switched its tail to chase away the flies.
“My dear friends, it gives me great pleasure to be back in your midst once more, and to have the opportunity to see and speak to you. My very dear and old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Spots, who have made it possible for me to meet you all this evening, have asked me to relate one or two of the experiences I had while away. I can assure you I have had many thrilling ones. But instead of telling you about them, I am going to describe one of the most peculiar sights I saw while in South America.
“As you well know, wherever a country has been settled by the Spanish or the Portuguese, there bull fights have been introduced, as it is the national sport of those two countries. Consequently when I was in Rio de Janeiro and heard people talking about going to the bull fight on Sunday afternoon (they are always held on Sunday) I decided to see what they were like, though I did not relish the idea in the least as I dislike to see any kind of an animal hurt or abused. You see I had heard that a bull fight is one of the most cruel sports engaged in by any nation. Still I felt that as long as I was in a country where they had them, I had better go and see how they are conducted and what the people who attend these fights look like. If I found it too cruel, I could come away.
“I followed the crowd going to the bull ring, and succeeded in slipping in between the people and finding a good place away up on the last tier of seats from which to witness the fight.
“I had been there only a few minutes when with a blare of trumpets a pair of double doors was thrown open and out rode a toreador on a coal-black horse prancing in time to the music as he champed his bit while his rider bowed low to the audience. Before him as he pranced around the ring went two trumpeters dressed in red velvet and silver lace, blaring away on their extra long beribboned trumpets. As for the toreador, he was costumed in black velvet and gold lace, and wore a three-cornered hat with a long flowing white ostrich plume, and carried a long spear held upright. Behind him marched the picadores and matadores.
“After this company once circles the ring, it is the custom for the toreador to take his place in the middle of the ring, facing the door through which the bulls enter the ring from their partially darkened stalls. The door from the stall into the ring is thrown wide open and seeing the bright light, the bull rushes for it, so that when he first enters the ring he is blinded by the sudden glare, and he stands, head erect, looking in all directions, puzzled which way to turn.
“The first bull to enter on the day I was there was a magnificent jet black beast with long, pointed horns, though the points had been sawed off, as that is the law in Brazil. Also no horse or bull may be killed or injured. The toreador, picadores and matadores are there to protect the horse and to keep him from being disemboweled or injured in any way. They are permitted to tease the bull and throw long darts into the bull but not to injure him.
“When I found this out I was delighted for now I could enjoy watching the fight and let my nerves quiet down.
“As soon as the bull’s eyes were accustomed to the light, he spied the toreador on the horse facing him, and with a snort he began to paw the dirt and switch his tail. He charged on horse and man but he was not quick enough. The horse jumped to one side and the toreador threw a dart that sank into the bull’s hind quarter. With a quick turn the bull was after them again and for some little time they chased each other here, there and everywhere around the ring until the toreador had thrown another dart into him.
