Читать книгу Into the Frozen South онлайн

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Presently the bull gets angrier—very angry indeed. His bovine nature impels him to cast about for something on which to wreak his spite. I don’t blame the bull. Even a Scout would be annoyed if a crowd of yelling idiots waved coloured blankets in his face for half an hour at a stretch! Seeing the idol of the audience proudly prancing about, the bull quite naturally lowers his head and goes for him. Here’s where the sport begins. The bull-fighter, with a twirl of his moustache and a sort of hand-kiss to the ladies, promptly retreats and turns, and as the bull slithers past he plants a dart in his hide. It is a sign of skill and daring to get that dart as near the animal’s head as possible. As soon as it is embedded in the skin the bull-fighter, in case anyone didn’t see him, unfurls a paper flag and waves it exultantly in the air. Then the people cheer and the ladies kiss their hands, and the temporary hero bows and smiles and pretends that he is the identical man who won the Great War. Then he goes to get another dart; a shorter one this time. The shorter the dart you plant in the unfortunate bull’s neck the greater the glory that comes your way, it seems. True enough, it is a sign of agility and courage, even though the bull’s horns are padded; and to hear the spectators cheer you’d think it was what the Americans call “the cat’s pyjamas.” To my way of thinking, though, football is streets ahead of bull-fighting for downright thrills.