NEXT morning we were 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.
 
“A bullfight is a stupid, cruel, disgusting business,” said he. “These Spanish people are most lovable and folk. How they can enjoy these wretched bullfights is a thing I could never understand.”
 
Then the Doctor went on to explain to me how a bull was first made very angry by teasing and then allowed to run into a circus where men came out with red cloaks, waved them at him, and ran away. Next the bull was allowed to tire himself out by tossing and a lot of poor, old, broken-down horses who couldn’t defend themselves. Then, when the bull was out of breath and wearied by this, a man came out with a sword and killed the bull.
 
“Every Sunday,” said the Doctor, “in almost every big town in Spain there are six bulls killed like that and as many horses.”
 
“But aren’t the men ever killed by the bull?” I asked.
 
“Unfortunately very seldom,” said he. “A bull is not nearly as dangerous as he looks, even when he’s angry, if you are only quick on your feet and don’t lose your head. These bullfighters are very clever and nimble. And the people, especially the Spanish ladies, think no end of them. A famous bullfighter (or , as they call them) is a more important man in Spain than a king—Here comes another crowd of them round the corner, look. See the girls throwing kisses to them. Ridiculous business!”
 
At that moment our friend the bed-maker came out to see the procession go past. And while he was wishing us good morning and how we had slept, a friend of his walked up and joined us. The bed-maker introduced this friend to us as Don Enrique Cardenas.
 
Don Enrique when he heard where we were from, to us in English. He appeared to be a well-educated, gentlemanly sort of person.
 
“And you go to see the bullfight to-morrow, yes?” he asked the Doctor pleasantly.
 
“Certainly not,” said John Dolittle firmly. “I don’t like bullfights—cruel, cowardly shows.”
 
Don Enrique nearly exploded. I never saw a man get so excited. He told the Doctor that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He said bullfighting was a noble sport and that the were the bravest men in the world.
 
“Oh, rubbish!” said the Doctor. “You never give the poor bull a chance. It is only when he is all tired and dazed that your precious matadors dare to try and kill him.”
 
I thought the Spaniard was going to strike the Doctor he got so angry. While he was still spluttering to find words, the bed-maker came between them and took the Doctor aside. He explained to John Dolittle in a whisper that this Don Enrique Cardenas was a very important person; that he it was who supplied the bulls—a special, strong black kind—from his own farm for all the bullfights in the Capa Blancas. He was a very rich man, the bed-maker said, a most important personage. He mustn’t be allowed to take on any account.
 
I watched the Doctor’s face as the bed-maker finished, and I saw a flash of boyish come into his eyes as though an idea had struck him. He turned to the angry Spaniard.
 
 
“Don Enrique,” he said, “you tell me your bullfighters are very brave men and . It seems I have offended you by saying that bullfighting is a poor sport. What is the name of the best matador you have for to-morrow’s show?”
 
“Pepito de Malaga,” said Don Enrique, “one of the greatest names, one of the bravest men, in all Spain.”
 
“Very well,” said the Doctor, “I have a proposal to make to you. I have never ............