"I'll spike him! I'll spike him! Smash my top-lights, if I don't spike him!" he shouted.
And, before we could guess his intention, he had leaped the railing, and was in the ring. Snatching up the sword of one of the fallen matadores, he made at the bull. The latter charged him, with a roar that shook the pavilion to its center. But the sturdy old sailor leaped on one side, got in his blow, and drove it in behind the shoulder, the weapon rapping up against the skin, close to the hilt. The magnificent beast tottered forward an instant, and then dropped to the earth, stone dead.
Cheer after cheer greeted the brave deed of the Yankee tar.
"Bravo! bravo! Americano! Americano!" echoed from the crowd of Brazilians.
"I told yer I'd spike him!" was the simple and only self-comment of Bluefish, as he returned to our midst.
We were proud enough of him, you may be sure. But we were prouder still, when, as we were going out with the throng, the band struck up "Hail Columbia." The master of ceremonies had ordered it as a compliment to us.
CHAPTER VIII. ROUND THE HORN—THE PATAGONIANS.
A week after our experience at the bull-fight, we were ready for sea. It was an easier matter, however, to be ready for sea, than to be able to get to sea. For several of John Bull's cruisers were watching for us just outside the harbor, determined, if possible, to put a stop to further depredations on British commerce as far as we were concerned. But, on a stormy night in the early part of August, Captain Joker determined to make an attempt to run the blockade. All the men were quietly posted at quarters, and we started, cautiously hugging the land on the south side of the bay. We got along capitally till we reached the mouth of the harbor. Here we almost ran into a man-o'-war. The night was so dark that you couldn't see your hand before your face. We just saw her lantern in time to bring our helm hard-a-port. As it was, we grazed her stern with our bowsprit.
"What ship is that?" was immediately bawled from the man-o'-war.