Montoya could forgive anything of a bullfighter who had afición . He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had afición he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends. Without his ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bullfighting.

Bill had gone upstairs as we came in, and I found him washing and changing in his room.

“Well,” he said, “talk a lot of Spanish?”

“He was telling me about the bulls coming in tonight.”

“Let’s find the gang and go down.”

“All right. They’ll probably be at the café.”

“Have you got tickets?”

“Yes. I got them for all the unloadings.”