One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled.

       "Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine."

       The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffeecup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday:

       _Dear Jake_,

       _We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps_,

                                          _Michael_.

        "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris.

       "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains."

       "Yes. We've been here nearly a week."

       "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?"

       "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid."

       "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together."

       "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there."

       "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete."

       "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta."

       "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish."

       "You want those big ones in the Irati."

       "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there."

       "I'd like to try them once more."

       "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap."

       "We really have to get into town," I said.

       "What a pity."

       After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt.

       "Por ustedes?"

       I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete."

       "Yes. It's for us."

       She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn."

       I handed it to Bill.

       "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked.

       "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price. 'I come Thursday'. That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?"

       "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn."

       "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?"

       "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."

       We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.

       "What will we say?" Bill asked.

       " 'Arriving to-night.' That's enough."

       We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery.

       "It's remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places."

       "Me either," Bill said.

       "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day."

       "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris.

       "I say not."

       We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery.

       "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"

       "It has the look of a pub," Bill said.

       "It looks to me like a pub," I said.

       "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill.

       We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay.

       He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money.

       "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here."

       "We've had a grand time, Harris."

       Harris was a little tight.

       "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war."

       "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris."

       "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time."

       "How about another bottle around?"

       "Jolly good idea," said Harris.

       "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it."

       "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know."

       "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said.

       The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass.

       "I say. You know this does utilize well."

       Bill slapped him on the back.

       "Good old Harris."

       "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know."

       "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you."

       "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me."

       "Come on and utilize another glass," I said.

       "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all."

       "Drink up, Harris."

       We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies.

       "I say, Harris--" I began.

       "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had."

       The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn.

       "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said.

       "I think he really did have a good time."

       "Harris? You bet he did."

       "I wish he'd come into Pamplona."

       "He wanted to fish."

       "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway."

       "I suppose not."

       We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way.

       "Your friends are here," he said.

       "Mr. Campbell?"

       "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley."

       He smiled as though there were something I would hear about.

       "When did they get in?"

       "Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had."

       "That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?"

       "Yes. All the rooms we looked at."

       "Where are our friends now?"

       "I think they went to the pelota."

       "And how about the bulls?"

       Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?"

       "Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada."

       Montoya put his hand on my shoulder.

       "I'll see you there."

       He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull-fighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would not understand.

       "Your friend, is he aficionado, too?" Montoya smiled at Bill.

       "Yes. He came all the way from New York to see the San Fermines."

       "Yes?" Montoya politely disbelieved. "But he's not aficionado like you."

       He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly.

       "Yes," I said. "He's a real aficionado."

       "But he's not aficionado like you are."

       Aficion means passion. An aficionado is one who is passionate about the bull-fights. All the good bull-fighters stayed at Montoya's hotel; that is, those with aficion stayed there. The commercial bullfighters stayed once, perhaps, and then did not come back. The good ones came each year. In Montoya's room were their photographs. The photographs were dedicated to Juanito Montoya or to his sister. The photographs of bull-fighters Montoya had really believed in were framed. Photographs of bull-fighters who had been without aficion Montoya kept in a drawer of his desk. They often had the most flattering inscriptions. But they did not mean anything. One day Montoya took them all out and dropped them in the waste-basket. He did not want them around.

       We often talked about bulls and bull-fighters. I had stopped at the Montoya for several years. We never talked for very long at a time. It was simply the pleasure of discovering what we each felt. Men would come in from distant towns and before they left Pamplona stop and talk for a few minutes with Montoya about bulls. These men were aficionados. Those who were aficionados could always get rooms even when the hotel was full. Montoya introduced me to some of them. They were always very polite at first, and it amused them very much that I should be an American. Somehow it was taken for granted that an American could not have aficion. He might simulate it or confuse it with excitement, but he could not really have it. When they saw that I had aficion, and there was no password, no set questions that could bring it out, rather it was a sort of oral spiritual examination with the questions always a little on the defensive and never apparent, there was this same embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a "Buen hombre." But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain.

       Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion 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 bull-fighting.

       Bill had gone up-stairs 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."

       "What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw.

       "It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down."

       "Do they ever gore the steers?"

       "Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them."

       "Can't the steers do anything?"

       "No. They're trying to make friends."

       "What do they have them in for?"

       "To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking their horns against the stone walls, or goring each other."

       "Must be swell being a steer."

       We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the café Iru?a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta.

       Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru?a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table.

       "Hello, you chaps!" she called.

       Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back.

       "Where the hell have you been?" I asked.

       "I brought them up here," Cohn said.

       "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come."

       "You'd never have gotten here."

       "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill."

       "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you."

       "It wasn't bad. We missed you."

       "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them."

       "You bring us. What rot."

       "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?"

       "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there."

       "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too."

       "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back."

       "Don't be an ass."

       "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked.

       "Was I not."

       "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly."

       "I'll not. I've told that four times."

       "You never told me," Robert Cohn said.

       "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me."

       "Tell them about your medals."

       "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me."

       "What story's that?"

       "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me."

       "Go on. Tell it, Brett."

       "Should I?"

       "I'll tell it myself."

       "What medals have you got, Mike?"

       "I haven't got any medals."

       "You must have some."

       "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this whopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him: 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' He said: 'What medals, sir?' And I said: 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' So he said: 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' And I said: 'How should I know?' Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette? 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket."

       He stopped for us to laugh.

       "Is that all?"

       "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right."

       "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter."

       We were all laughing.

       "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow."

       "Tell the rest," Brett said.

       "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said.

       "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor."

       "Frightfull............