We were all more comfortable that afternoon when, upon taking our seats, we saw Randy in the first row, as bright and cheerful as a silver five-peseta coin, but without his cape. Our knowledgeable friend arrived and, taking his seat, dampened our feeling of relief a bit with the news that Randy had indeed arrived at the Plaza de Toros with his fighting cape, only to have it taken away by the alert police.
"I think," said the friend, "that even though he doesn't have his cape we had better watch him." The friend said he had warned the police who patrol the callej�n, the narrow area between the inside fence of the ring and the first row of seats, that we had a potential jumper in the first row.
By the time the fourth Miura had been dispatched, we were all breathing a little more easily. We had watched Randy off and on throughout the afternoon, and he had maintained his mood of excited eagerness. We could also see the flat-hatted police in the callej�n keeping a careful eye on him.
Thus lulled, we were not quite prepared for what happened when the fifth bull, a monster as big as a bus and with horns as wide as the arms of St. Peter's Square, tore into the ring. As the bull charged out, a drunk in the next section of seats threw a seat cushion into the ring and the police who had been keeping Randy under surveillance rushed over to subdue this malefactor. Randy saw his chance and took it. Reaching under his suit jacket, he pulled out and unfolded a large tablecloth clearly bearing the mark of a much-favored restaurant in Pamplona where most of the well-heeled aficionados gathered to lunch before the fights. He stood up, unfurled his tablecloth like some proud banner, gave a huge leap over the wire cable protecting the first row of seats and landed on all fours in the callej�n.
When Randy started his maneuver, there was not a policeman within 20 feet of him. But even as he began to rise, my friend and I set up a howl.
"Watch him! Watch him! He's jumping!" we screamed, and three policemen abandoned the cushion-thrower and dashed toward Randy. Even then, it was touch and go. Randy had one leg already over the inside barrier and had attracted the immediate attention of the Miura before the first policeman reached him. As the Miura turned to charge, the police roughly snatched Randy back into the safety of the callej�n.
As they carried him, more gently now, around beneath us to head out of the ring and toward the city jail, where such jumpers are generally sentenced to 24 hours to cool off their bullfighting ardor, Randy turned his face toward our seats and gave us such a mysterious look as I shall never forget in all my life. It was part remonstrance, part thankfulness and part triumph.
After the last bull had been dispatched, we made our way through the crowds and sat down at Kutz' Bar for drinks and self-examination. We were as full of mixed feelings as Randy's face had been full of mixed reflections. We knew we had done the right thing by stopping Randy, but still we had a strange feeling of having frustrated some noble purpose. Finally the friend said: "I think we should take a bottle of wine and a chunk of cheese and bread to him at the lock-up."
As soon as we finished our evening meal we bought the bottle and the food and headed for the local c�rcel. A desk sergeant received us amiably, but in response to our request, he laughed and said: "Oh, you mean the crazy American who wants to be a bullfighter. No, he is not here. We let him go. He promised that he would never again try to jump in Pamplona. We told him he could jump somewhere else, but not in Pamplona."
We left the wine and the food with the sergeant, and headed out through the town to find Randy. We got on his trail in the third bar we tried, and picked up his scent in three or four other caf�s. But, search as we might, we could not find him, and thus could not know whether he was celebrating or drowning his agony.