“Oh, always interested in whatever goes on,” Walker answered off-handedly. “You know how it is. See a story breaking, you want to be in on the kill. Just can’t help yourself. Gets in your blood, after you’ve worked on any paper for a while.

“Back four years ago, I went up into northern Canada for a vacation. Chose that spot because I thought it would be far away from newspapers and stories of all kinds. I guess I was feeling rather disgusted with everything and wanted to get away, so when an old newspaper buddy who had struck out a claim for himself asked me to go up and do a little prospecting for gold with him, I jumped at the chance.

“It looked like an ideal set-up. We were to go alone to his cabin which was miles away from civilization and stay there for the summer. We stocked up with plenty of food, some books I had been wanting to read for a long time, and took a radio along.

“I had a book I wanted to write, something I had started and never found time to finish. Oh, it was nothing,” he added as Nan and the rest looked impressed. “All newspaper people think that some day they’ll write a book that will take the world by storm.

“Well, I thought I would finish that, do some prospecting and just have a nice quiet time for myself. The chap I was going up with was a nice sort of fellow, quiet like myself.

“We went by train as far as we could go, and then got an old Indian to paddle us the rest of the way in a canoe. It was nice going. We took it leisurely, stopped and fished along the banks of the river, and camped for three days in a gorgeous spot that seemed as remote from civilization as any place could possibly be.

“Things went along quite perfectly until one night—this was after we had been in the camp for a couple of weeks—there was a radio call ‘Plane carrying doctor and infantile paralysis serum to Canadian outpost in Northwest down. Position approximately’—Oh, I’ve forgotten what it was now, but it was not far from our camp.

“The next morning we were up at daybreak and by the next afternoon we had located the plane. The pilot was dead, but the doctor, though suffering from a broken leg and shock, was still living. After we had fixed him up, we spent the night trying to get the plane’s radio to the point where it would function, so that we could get the news back to civilization.

“But things were so radically wrong with it, that my pal finally decided that he would set out for the nearest outpost, traveling as we had when we came, walking and by canoe. In the meantime, the doctor was fretting and stewing because he couldn’t get to the station that was in such urgent need of medical aid, so partly on this insistence, partly because I’m a stubborn fool when I start out to do anything, I kept tinkering around with the radio.

“Finally, the thing came to life, and we were able to get in touch with the outside world. You know as well as I what happens in such cases. It wasn’t long before I was up to my neck, sending exclusive stories back to my old sheet and then, when another plane came to take the doctor and brought with it a whole flock of reporters, I was swamped with work.

“I grumbled, but I loved it, and when the story died down and I was called back to work on an assignment that I was more than proud to accept I was like a kid with a new toy. Never so glad to get back into harness in my life.

“I feel now, a little the way I did then. Mexico and the land of maÑana spelled romance and rest to me in the city room where I do my daily stint. But now I want neither of them. I smell a story.”

With this, he sniffed the air as though he was actually trying to get the direction of the scent. Alice laughed and held her hand on the handle of the door. “Maybe you do,” she said, “but you’re not leaving us today, at least not this minute. Walker Jamieson, we’re headed for a bullfight and you’re going along with us whether you want to or not.”

There was no protest, and Walker was glad afterwards when he pieced the little sections of the plot together that he hadn’t struck out on the trail of the story before that memorable bull-fight.

“And what’s the man with the wheelbarrow doing in the parade?” Nan asked the question of Walker Jamieson.

They were all sitting now in the huge arena, “Plaza de Toros,” the most important bull-fighting ring in all Mexico. The place was packed and Nan thought as she looked out over the people that she had never in her life seen such a gay colorful crowd, nor one in such an excited mood.

They were sitting on the shady side of the ring, “Sombra” it was called, the seats of which cost twice the price of those on the sunny side, or “Sol.”

It was four o’clock exactly and the cuadrilla or parade that precedes every bull-fight had just entered the arena. Everyone was standing up shouting, waving his sombrero, and cheering for his favorite.

“That’s a secret, not to be divulged until later,” Walker answered Nan’s question.

“I didn’t know it would be like this,” Grace, generally so quiet and shy, said. Her face was all alight and she was waving the pillow that had been bought for her to sit on, as were all the rest of the girls and women in the place. Laura was waving hers too, and so were Bess and Nan and Amelia.

Down in the ring below them the parade was marching around. First came a man on a spirited horse that pranced and danced and bowed its head to the ground again and again as the rider circled the ring. Then followed the matadores or bullfighters themselves in brilliant costumes that proclaimed to everyone that they were the heroes of the hour. It was for them that pillows were waved and cheers echoed back and forth across the ring.

“Oh, they’re gorgeous, simply gorgeous,” Nan was carried away with the excitement. “What are they called?” she pointed her finger to a number of men now riding on horseback and directed her question to Walker.

“And look, what are they?” Laura turned to him at the same time. She was pointing to men in white suits, red sashes, and caps who came in on mules.

“One at a time, please,” Walker laughed at their excitement. “Nan’s first. Those men on horseback are the picadores. Watch them later. And you, SeÑorita,” he turned to Laura, “you asked about the wise monkeys, ‘monosabios’ we Mexicans call them. When the fight’s over they’ll drag out the dead bull.”

“Oh!” The exclamation was Grace’s. She had forgotten that a bullfight meant that there would be blood and killing.

Walker looked at her questioningly and then at Alice. “Here was a girl,” the glances they exchanged said, “that would have to be watched at the killing.”

Now, below them, the horseman leading the procession bowed before the judge of the bullfight, the formation disbanded, and the ring cleared for the entrance of the first bull.

It came in, charging from a door that was opened below the ring, went bellowing madly across the arena, and charged straight into a target that maddened it further.

Now the prettiest, most graceful part of the whole spectacle began.

Two helpers carrying lovely bright capes stepped from the side into the arena. One of them waved his cape, attracting the attention of the bull which came rushing toward the bright moving object. The helper danced gracefully aside. The bull turned and rushed at him again, putting his head down and going for him with his horns. But the man was graceful and daring and teasing and avoided him.

Now the other helper waved his cape and was equally provocative and the bull went for him with the same lack of success.

So they played back and forth, tantalizing the bull, attracting it with one cape and distracting it with another until it was thoroughly maddened.

Then the rider came in on his horse and the rider and the horse teased the bull further. So it went until the climax when the third and most important part of the fight began—the actual killing of the bull.