“Look at that, will you?”
“Graceful as a snake.”
“Some cheering, Bob. Beats the old football field.”
The bull had turned, was coming back. Again Estramadura awaited him. Out whipped the cape, falling over the animal’s head, turning him around for another charge. Estramadura did not shift his feet an inch.
Indescribably graceful he seemed, out there, under that blazing sun, every action etched on the retina of the onlookers. The bull charged again. Then Estramadura lifting his tri-cornered silk cap reached over and hung it on one of the animal’s horns—without moving from his position.
It was the wildest kind of daring, the utmost display of skill. And in the yell of frenzied acclaim which went up was mingled many an American as well as Mexican voice.
Then, as if at a signal from the matador, a picador dashed forward on horseback, blunt spear leveled, and took and turned aside the bull’s next charge. That gave the nearest toreador time to get into the game once more, and he diverted the animal with his cape.
“Hey, Captain,” called Jack, leaning across Frank who intervened, “where’s the matador going now—that daring fellow in red?”
Estramadura was moving toward the fence.
“He’s going to get his sword,” replied the army flyer. “Now he’ll give the bull the coup-de-grace.”