"They are," he acquiesced. "I was paid a week in advance, and have lived upon the proceeds ever since. And now my life was indeed a merry one. I was free of the Ring. Now I played the cornet in the Brassos Banderillos, and my performance pleased the aficionados (or advertising agents) so well, that my name was known throughout the Peninsula."
"Well," once more I interrupted, "I suppose you met a Spanish beauty, fell in love with her, and was cut out by a party of the name of JUAN?"
"However do you think of such clever things?" asked the old man, in a tone of extreme astonishment. "But you are right. I placed CLEMENCIA one day in the pal co (or part reserved for friends), and the bull tossed me. Ah, she trampled upon me—treated me like a mat. But I loved her and adored myself. Hence I was called a 'Mat-Adorer.' I repeat, the bull tossed me, and I did not come down heads."
"Go on."
"I was ill, and neglected, but soon recovered sufficiently to kill sixty-six bulls in succession."
"Surely you are exaggerating?"
"You are perfectly right," he answered, with a blush. "I killed sixty-five—the sixty-sixth was only mortally wounded. And now the people made an idol of me. I was absolutely worshipped"—
"Come to the point," I said, in a tone that showed I was not to be trifled with.
"No that was the fate of JUAN. At the end of a game of toros (which is Spanish for marbles) he said to me (in excellent Spanish), 'MONTI, me bhoy, philaloo! ye will shtay by me?' 'That will I—as shure as me name is TIM—I should say MONTI,' I responded, in choice Castilian. The bull came up, I looked him in the eye, raised my shillalo (a short Spanish club), and, crying 'Whist!' he cut for partners. JUAN was cut a deal."
"That bull was a ripper," I murmured.