Somehow it made me think of my mother and father far away in Puddleby, with their regular habits, the evening practise on the flute and the rest—doing the same thing every day. I felt sort of sorry for them in a way, because they missed the fun of this traveling life, where we were doing something new all the time—even sleeping differently. But I suppose if they had been invited to go to bed on a pavement in front of a shop they wouldn’t have cared for the idea at all. It is funny how some people are.
“The Doctor started chatting in Spanish to the bed-maker”
THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
THE DOCTOR’S WAGER
NEXT morning we were awakened by a great racket. There was a procession coming down the street, a number of men in very gay clothes followed by a large crowd of admiring ladies and cheering children. I asked the Doctor who they were.
“They are the bullfighters,” he said. “There is to be a bullfight to-morrow.”
“What is a bullfight?” I asked.
To my great surprise the Doctor got red in the face with anger. It reminded me of the time when he had spoken of the lions and tigers in his private zoo.