d. The bull
charged past Ferrero, then, wheeling quickly, made again for Torellas,
and his head was lowered to gore again. Ferrero got desperate and threw
the cape from him, and it caught on the horns, and while the bull was
entangled and enraged afresh, Cogan stepped close, picked out the little
spot the size of a fifty-cent piece at the head of the spine, stood on
his toes and came down with all his force. It wasn't any approved
matador's stroke, for Cogan, standing behind instead of in front of the
bull's horns, drove home in just the reverse fashion, but it wasn't a
bad stroke at that. The knife went home. The bull rolled over, and Cogan
stood there and looked and looked. Nobody was more surprised than he.
Not once in ten times he was saying to himself could he have done it in
cold blood. Only when Ferrero pulled him by the arm did he think to turn
and bow with the banderillero to the cheering audience, especially to
some blue-jackets who had now recognized him as an old shipmate and were
calling him by name--hundreds of them.

"In the middle of the excitement he looked up to see how Valera was
taking it. She and her father were both leaning far over the rail toward
him--he with both arms extended and yelling, she with her handkerchief
pressed to her lips. Her eyes met Cogan's, and Cogan was satisfied. His
little Valera of the beach was on deck again. No matter about the rest.
That must have been a full minute after it happened and after the
surgeon had called out 'It is well. Torellas will live!'

"But the bull-fighters in the ring did not believe that all was well.
'Torellas! Oh, Torellas!' they were saying, and some were shedding
tears, as they carried him to the dressing-room. Torellas was now
conscious. He smiled at Ferrero, and he was smiling while they were
undressing him, and he took Cogan's hand and held it while the others
were telling him how it was. Not until the surgeon said, 'You will live,
but your bull-fighting days are done,' did he lose his nerve. He had
been pale, but he went paler then. The globes of sweat collected on his
forehead. 'Oh, no, no, doctor!' he cried and fainted.

"That night Cogan slipped away from a party of American blue-jackets who
wanted to paint Lima in high colors for him, and went down to see
Torellas, who had been taken to his home, a fine, large house on a wide
street. A crowd was in the street, waiting for word of his condition.

"Ferrero met him at the door. 'They wait