“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.

“Bedad he was that, Sorr,” returned the dotard, whose Spanish became more and more Castilian every moment.  “CLEMENICA died the next morning.  But I am remorseful—­that I did not kill her myself.  And now I have had my revenge!  I have told ye the story!  I know you—­your name’s H-A-R-”—­

He gave a gasp and died.

But I too had my revenge.  I sent the tale I had just heard to the F-rtn-ghtly R-v-w.

M.F.H.

* * * * *

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