For a little while, until his adjustments were made, Frank fiddled with the dials. Then, assured that everything was in good working order, he leaned back, preparing to listen to whatever was in the air.
Presently Jack looked around as if to address some remark to him and for the first time noticed what Frank was doing. He began to laugh.
“You’re a fine one,” he said. “Coming to a bull fight, and paying it no attention, but preparing, instead, to listen in on some broadcasting program. Hear anything?”
Frank took off the headphone.
“No,” he said, in a disappointed tone, “there isn’t a thing in the air except some Morse. And I’m so rusty, I can’t make it out. Want to listen?”
Jack stretched out a hand to take the headphones, but at that moment Bob plucked his sleeve.
“Here they come, fellows. Look.”
Both youths lost any further interest in radio as they gazed into the arena below.
“That’s Estramadura, the tall one in red,” explained Captain Cornell, pointing. “And the little fellow in yellow is Juan Salento. Listen to the yells.”
Wild cheering broke from the stands as the procession made its preliminary circle of the arena. First came the two famous matadors. They were followed at a little distance by the eight toreadors, marching four abreast. Four picadors on horseback followed, blunt spears erect. Last of all came a boy driving a team of mules. And in all the world there was nobody so swollen with importance as that boy.