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Not that the sport is as bloodthirsty as might appear from the foregoing description. The darts which are employed have only very tiny barbs, not much bigger than fish-hooks, intended merely to pierce the skin and not draw blood. And the bull is not killed, as I’ve said; it is simply baited. All the same, my sympathies were with the bulls all along. Get about fifty fish-hooks stuck through your skin and you’ll understand what I mean.

Those of our party who had seen genuine Spanish bull-fights, where the bull’s horns are not padded, said this show was only a mild imitation of the real thing. In Spain the horses—shocking screws, taken out of the trams after they’re used up—are gored savagely, and when they scream with pain they are spurred and lifted clean on to the murderous horns for another dose of the same medicine. Sometimes even the toreadors and matadors and picadors get gored in their turn. I won’t say “Serve them right,” but it’s my own affair what I think.

We Quests kept our end up so far as cheering was concerned. Whenever anything really exciting occurred we got up and yelled our famous war-cry of “Yoicks! Tally-ho!” which naturally aroused interest and amusement amongst the general run of the spectators, who got to their feet and cheered back at us very heartily, and no doubt described us to their friends at a later hour as “Those mad English!” This bull-fight was particularly honoured by the presence of the President of Portugal. I’ll say it was an unusual day, very different from an average day in England!