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If the toreador happens to be dismounted, he is given even shorter darts than if he were mounted. The footman’s weapons carry no paper flags, and he usually sticks them in two at a time, because he’s only got two hands, I suppose. It must require a bit of nerve to do it, even though it doesn’t quite come up to a Britisher’s idea of sport. The bull charges like an avalanche, and I fancy, from the ring, must look about as big as a landslide. He looked gigantic from where we sat, with the wine sellers offering us heady Portuguese drinks every time we breathed; and to the toreador that bull must have seemed as enormous as the P. and O. boat did to the little Quest outside the Tagus. I held my breath more than once during those charges, I assure you, for I was certain the bull-fighter was going to be smashed to smithereens; but just at the critical moment the man stepped aside, took a short run, plunged in his two darts fairly into the back of the animal’s neck, and got clear before he bellowed and turned. Yes, it was very dexterous indeed; but it didn’t please the bull. He swung about, scuffling the sand and roaring, and the toreador streaked for the barricade like greased lightning.