Not that the sport is as bloodthirsty as might appear from the foregoing description. The darts which are employed have only very tiny barbs, not much bigger than fish-hooks, intended merely to pierce the skin and not draw blood. And the bull is not killed, as I’ve said; it is simply baited. All the same, my sympathies were with the bulls all along. Get about fifty fish-hooks stuck through your skin and you’ll understand what I mean.
Those of our party who had seen genuine Spanish bull-fights, where the bull’s horns are not padded, said this show was only a mild imitation of the real thing. In Spain the horses—shocking screws, taken out of the trams after they’re used up—are gored savagely, and when they scream with pain they are spurred and lifted clean on to the murderous horns for another dose of the same medicine. Sometimes even the toreadors and matadors and picadors get gored in their turn. I won’t say “Serve them right,” but it’s my own affair what I think.
We _Quests_ kept our end up so far as cheering was concerned. Whenever anything really exciting occurred we got up and yelled our famous war-cry of “Yoicks! Tally-ho!” which naturally aroused interest and amusement amongst the general run of the spectators, who got to their feet and cheered back at us very heartily, and no doubt described us to their friends at a later hour as “Those mad English!” This bull-fight was particularly honoured by the presence of the President of Portugal. I’ll say it was an unusual day, very different from an average day in England!
Naturally enough, during our stay in Portugal we were swarmed with visitors. The British and American Ministers were shown over the _Quest_ by our leader. Like the sight-seers in London and Plymouth, these visitors seemed to imagine we had joined a sort of suicide club; they were astonished at the tiny proportions of the ship and expressed grave doubts as to her future safety.
The day after the bull-fight was nothing out of the common. I was detailed for galley duty with the cook, who was now revelling in still waters, a stove that would burn, and grub that a man could take a pride in cooking. In the evening I went ashore with some Portuguese Scouts, who insisted on giving Mooney and myself a truly top-hole welcome. That’s what Scouting does—it makes you firm friends wherever you go. But being a Scout, and especially a kilted Scout, makes you a bit too conspicuous, so I shed my uniform whenever possible and tried to pass along with the crowd. All the same, the Lisbon Scouts were good pals and showed us all the sights of the place. In return we showed them the sights of the _Quest_ and got the debt squared in some measure. They were keenly interested, and there were so many of them that we could have filled in all our time in explaining things to them in such language as Scouts can understand.