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?"
