CHAPTER IX

An Unlikely Tale--Manuel's Sisters--Life's Baffling Problems.

It was already the beginning of autumn; Leandro, on the advice of

Señor Ignacio, was living with his aunt on Aguila street; Milagros

continued keeping company with Lechuguino. Manuel gave up going with

Vidal and Bizco on their skirmishes and joined the company of

Rebolledo and the two Aristas.

The elder, Aristón, entertained him and frightened him out of his wits

with lugubrious tales of cemeteries and ghosts; the little Aristas

continued his gymnastic exercises; he had constructed a springboard by

placing a plank upon a heap of sand and there he practised his

death-defying leaps.

One day Alonso, Tabuenca's aid, appeared in the Corralón accompanied

by a woman and a little girl.

The woman seemed old and weary; the tot was long and thin and pale.

Don Alonso found them a place in a dingy corner of the small patio.

They brought with them a small bundle of clothes, a dirty poodle with

a very intelligent look, and a monkey tied to a chain; in a short

while they had to sell the monkey to some gipsies that lived in the

Quinta de Goya.

Don Alonso called Manuel and said to him:

"Run off and hunt up Don Roberto, and tell him that there's a woman

here named Rosa, and that she is or has been a circus acrobat; she

must be the one he's looking for."

At once Manuel went off to the house; Roberto had left the place and

Manuel did not know his whereabouts.

Don Alonso carne frequently to the Corralón and conversed with the

mother and the girl. On the window-sill of their tiny home the mother

and the daughter had a little box with a sprig of mint planted in it;

although they watered it every morning, it scarcely grew, for there

was no sun. One day the woman and child disappeared together with

their pretty poodle; they left nothing in their quarters except a

worn-out, broken tambourine.

Don Alonso got into the habit of visiting the Corralón; he would

exchange a few words with Rebolledo, he of the modernist barber-shop

who chattered away, and would witness the gymnastic prowess of

Aristas. One afternoon the boy's mother asked the former Snake-Man

whether the child showed any real aptitude.

Don Alonso grew serious and subjected the boy's performance to a

searching examination, so that he could form an estimate of the

youngster's abilities and give him a little useful advice.

It was really curious to see the former circus-player give his orders;

he went through them with august seriousness.

"One, two, three.... Hop-la!... Once more, now. At position. The knees

near the head ... nails down ... One, two ... one, two.... Hop-la!"

Don Alonso was not at all displeased with little Aristas' showing, but

he emphasized the unavoidable necessity of continual hard practise.

"Whoever wants something has to pay the price, my little fellow," he

said. "And the profession of gymnast isn't within everybody's reach."

To the mother he confided that her son might some day be a fine circus

artist.

Then Don Alonso, finding himself before a numerous public, would begin

to talk volubly of the United States, of Mexico, and the South

American republics.

"Why don't you tell us stories of the countries you've been to?" asked

Perico Rebolledo.

"No, not now; I have to go out with the _Infiel_ Tower."

"Ah! Go on, tell us," they would all implore.

Don Alonso pretended to be importuned by the request; but when he got

going, he spun one yarn after the other in such numbers that they

almost had to beg him to stop.

"And didn't you ever see in those countries men who had been killed by

lions?" asked Aristón.

"No."

"Then there aren't any lions?"

"Lions in cages ... yes, a lot."

"But I mean at liberty, in the fields."

"In the fields? No."

Don Alonso seemed rather provoked to make these confessions.

"No other wild beasts, either?"

"There are no longer any wild beasts in the civilized countries," said

the barber.

"Why, see here, there certainly are wild beasts over there," and Don

Alonso, wrinkling his features into a jesting grimace, winked slily at

Rebolledo. "Once a terrible thing happened to me; we were sailing by

an island when we heard cannon shots. It was the garrison firing off a

salvo."

"But what are you laughing at?" asked Aristón.

"Nervousness.... Well, as I was saying, I went up to the captain of

the ship and asked his permission to let me land on the island. 'Very

well,' he said to me, 'take the Golondrina, if you wish,'--Golondrina

was the name of the canoe; 'but you must be back within a couple of

hours.'

"I set off in my boat and hala! hala! ... I reached the island, which

was thickly planted with plane-trees and cocoanut-trees, and I

disembarked on the beach into which the Golondrina had thrust its

prow."

Here Don Alonso's features were convulsed with the impossibility of

restraining his laughter; he shot a glance at the barber, accompanied

by a confidential wink.

"I land," he continued, "then I start running, and soon, paf! ... in

the face; a huge mosquito, and then, paf! ... another mosquito, until

I was surrounded by a swarm of the animals, each one as large as a

bat. With a scarred face I begin to run for the beach so as to escape

in my canoe, when I catch sight of a lobster right next to the

Golondrina; but what a lobster I He must have been as big as a bear;

he was black, and shiny, and went chug, chug, chug, like an

automobile. No sooner did the creature set eyes on me than he began to

rush upon me with loud outcries; I ran for a cocoanut tree, and one,

two, three, I shinnied right up the trunk to the top. The lobster

approaches the tree, stops meditatively, and decides to shinny up

after me,--which he did."

"An awful situation," commented the barber.

"Just imagine," replied Don Alonso, blinking. "I only had a little

stick in my hands, and I defended myself against the lobster by

hitting him in the knuckles; but he, roaring with rage, and eyes

shining, continued climbing. I couldn't get any farther, and I was

thinking of coming down; but as I made a movement, biff!... The son of

a sea-cook grabs me with one of his many legs by the coat and remains

there hanging from me. The cussed critter was as heavy as lead; he was

already reaching up after me with another claw when I remembered that

I had in my vest pocket a toothpick that I had bought in Chicago, and

that it had a knife attachment; I opened this, and in a moment slashed

off the tail of my coat, and cataplun! ... down from a height of at

least forty metres the lobster fell to the ground. I can't understand

how he wasn't killed. There he began to cry and howl, and go round and

round the cocoanut tree in which I was, glaring at me with his

terrible eyes. Whereupon I--for being a gymnast had to come in handy

to a fellow,--began to leap from one cocoanut tree to the next and

from one plane-tree to the other, while the lobster kept following me,

howling away with the tail of my coat in his teeth.

"Reaching near the beach I find that the tide has gone out and that

the Golondrina is more than fifty metres above the waves. 'I'll wait,'

I said to myself. But at this moment I see, thrusting its head out

from the tree-top that I was then on, a serpent; I seize a branch,

swing up and back for a while so that I can land as far as possible

from the lobster, when the damned branch breaks on me and I lose my

support."

"And what did you do then?" asked the barber.

"I took two somersaults in the air at a hazard."

"That was a useful precaution."

"Certainly I thought I was lost. On the contrary, I was saved."

"But how?" asked El Aristón.

"Very simple. For as I fell, with the branch in my hand, I landed

plump on the lobster, and as I came down with such a high velocity, I

pierced him right through with the branch and left him nailed to the

beach. The animal roared like a bull; I jumped into the Golondrina and

made my escape. But my vessel had sailed away. I began to row, but

there wasn't a sail in sight. 'I'm lost,' says I to myself. But thanks

to the lobster, I was rescued...."

"The lobster?" asked everybody in amazement.

"Yes sirree; a steamboat that was on its course many miles off, on

hearing the lobster's wails thought that this might be the signal of

some shipwrecked crew; it drew near the island, picked me up, and in a

few days I was back with my company."

As he finished his tale Don Alonso made a most expressive grimace, and

left with his _Infiel_ Tower for the street. Aristas, Rebolledo

and Manuel applauded the old circus man's stories, and the apprentice

gymnast felt more determined than ever to continue practicing upon the

trapeze and the springboard, so that some day he might behold those

distant lands of which Don Alonso spoke.

A few weeks later there occurred one of the events that left upon

Manuel the deepest impression of his entire career. It was Sunday; the

boy went to his mother's place, and helped her, as usual, to wash the

dishes. Then came Petra's daughters, and they spent the whole

afternoon quarrelling over a skirt or a petticoat that the younger had

bought with the elder sister's money.

Manuel, bored by the chatter, invented some excuse and left the house.

The rain was coming down in bucketfuls; Manuel reached the Puerta del

Sol, entered the café de Levante and sat down near the window. The

people outside, dressed in their Sunday clothes, scampered by to

places of refuge in the wide doorways of the big square; the coaches

rumbled hurriedly on amidst the downpour; umbrellas came and went and

their black tops, glistening with rain, collided and intertwined like

a shoal of tortoises. Presently it cleared up and Manuel left the

café; it was still too early to return to the house; he crossed the

Plaza de Oriente and stopped on the Viaduct, watching from that point

the people strolling along Segovia street.

In the sky, which was becoming serene, floated a few dark clouds with

silver linings, resembling mountains capped with snow; blown by the

wind, they scurried along with outspread wings; the bright sun

illumined the fields with its golden rays; resplendent in the clouds,

it reddened them like live coals; a few cloudlets scudded through

space, white flakes of foam. The hillocks and dales of the Madrilenian

suburbs were not yet mottled with green grass; the trees of the Campo

del Moro stood out reddish, skeleton-like, amidst the foliage of the

evergreens; dark rolls of vapour rose along the ground, soon to be

swept away by the wind. As the clouds passed by overhead, the plain

changed hue; successively it graded from purple into leaden-grey,

yellow, copper; the Extremadura cart-road, with the rows of grey,

dirty houses on each side, traced a broken line. This severe,

melancholy landscape of the Madrilenian suburbs, with their bleak,

cold gloominess, penetrated into Manuel's soul.

He left the Viaduct balcony, sauntered through several narrow lanes,

until he reached Toledo Street, walked down the Ronda and turned in

toward his house. He was getting near the Paseo de las Acacias when he

overheard two old women talking about a crime that had just been

committed at the corner of Amparo Street.

"And just as they were about to catch him, he killed himself," one of

them was saying.

Out of curiosity Manuel hastened his step, and approached a group that

was discussing the event at the entrance to the Corralón.

"Where did this fellow come from that killed himself?" asked Manuel of

Aristas.

"Why! It was Leandro!"

"Leandro!"

"Yes, Leandro, who killed Milagros and then killed himself."

"But ... is this really so?"

"Yes, man. Just a moment ago,"

"Here? In the house?"

"On this very spot."

Manuel, quaking with fear, ran up the stairs to the gallery. The floor

was still stained with the pool of blood. Señor Zurro, the only

witness to the drama, was telling the story to a group of neighbours.

"I was here, reading the paper," said the old-clothes man, "and

Milagros and her mother were talking to Lechuguino. The engaged couple

were enjoying themselves, when up comes Leandro to the gallery; he was

about to open the door to his rooms when, before he went in, he

suddenly turned to Milagros. 'Is that your sweetheart?' he said to

her. It seemed to me that he was as pale as a corpse. 'Yes,' she

answered. 'All right. Then I've come here to end things once and for

all,' he shouted. 'Which of the two do you prefer, him or me?' 'Him,'

shrieks Milagros. 'Then it's all up,' cried Leandro in a hoarse voice.

'I'm going to kill you.' After that I can't recall anything clearly;

it was all as swift as a thunderbolt; when I ran over to them, the

girl was gushing blood from her mouth; the proof-reader's wife was

screaming and Leandro was chasing Lechuguino with his knife opened."

"I saw him leave the house," added an old woman. "He was waving his

blood-stained knife in the air; my husband tried to stop him; but he

backed like a bull, lunged for him and came near killing him."

"And where are my uncle and aunt?" asked Manuel.

"Over at the Emergency Hospital. They followed the stretcher."

Manuel went down into the patio.

"Where are you going?" asked Aristón.

"To the Emergency Hospital."

"I'll go along with you."

The two boys were joined by a machine shop apprentice who lived in the

Corrala.

"I saw him kill himself," said the apprentice. "We were all running

after him, hollering, 'Catch him! Stop him!' when two guards appeared

on Amparo Street, drew their swords and blocked his way. Then Leandro

bounded back, made his way through the people and landed here again;

he was going to escape through the Paseo de las Acacias when he

stumbled against La Muerte, who began to call him names. Leandro

stopped, looked in every direction; nobody dared to get near him; his

eyes were blazing. Suddenly he jabbed the knife into his left side I

don't know how many times. When one of the guards seized him by the

arm he collapsed like an empty sack."

The commentary of Aristón and the apprentice proved endless; the boys

arrived at the Emergency Hospital and were told that the corpses,

those of Milagros and Leandro, had been taken to the Morgue. The three

gamins walked down to the Canal, to the little house near the river's

edge, which Manuel and the urchins of his gang had so often visited,

trying to peep into the windows. A knot of people had gathered about

the door.

"Let's have a look," said Aristón.

There was a window, wide open, and they peered in. Stretched upon a

marble slab lay Leandro; his face was the color of wax, and his

features bore an expression of proud defiance. At his side Señora

Leandro stood wailing and vociferating; Señor Ignacio, with his son's

hand clasped in his own, was weeping silently. At another table a

group surrounded Milagros' corpse. The man in charge of the morgue

ordered them all out. As the proofreader and Señor Ignacio met at the

entrance they exchanged looks and then averted their glance; the two

mothers, on the other hand, glared at each other in terrible hatred.

Señor Ignacio arranged that they should not sleep at the Corralón but

in Aguila Street. In that place, at the home of Señora Jacoba, there

was a horrible confusion of weeping and cursing. The three women

blamed Milagros for everything; she was a common strumpet, an evil

woman, a selfish, wretched ingrate.

One of the neighbours of the Corrala indicated a strange detail: when

the public doctor came to examine Milagros and remove her corset so

that he might determine the wound, he found a tiny medallion

containing a portrait of Leandro.

"Whose picture is this?" he is reported to have asked.

"The fellow who killed her," they answered. This was exceedingly

strange, and it fascinated Manuel; many a time he had thought that

Milagros really loved Leandro; this fairly confirmed his conjectures.

During all that night Señor Ignacio, seated on a chair, wept without

cease; Vidal was scared through and through, as was Manuel. The

presence of death, seen so near, had terrorized the two boys.

And while inside the house everybody was crying, in the streets the

little girls were dancing around in a ring. And this contrast of

anguish and serenity, of grief and calm, imparted to Manuel a confused

sense of life. It must, he thought, be something exceedingly sad, and

something weirdly inscrutable.

PART THREE

CHAPTER I

Uncle Patas' Domestic Drama--The Bakery--Karl the Baker--The

Society of the Three.

The death of his son made such a deep impression upon Señor Ignacio

that he fell ill. He gave up working in the shop and as he showed no

improvement after two or three weeks, Leandra said to Manuel:

"See here: better be off to your mother's place, for I can't keep you

here."

Manuel returned to the lodging-house and Petra, through the

intercession of the landlady, procured her son a job as errand-boy at

a bread and vegetable stand situated upon the Plaza del Carmen.

Manuel was here more oppressed than at Señor Ignacio's. Uncle Patas,

the proprietor, a heavy, burly Galician, instructed the youth in his

duties.

He was to get up at daybreak, open the store, untie the bundles of

greens that were brought by a boy from the Plaza de la Cebada and

receive the bread that was left by the delivery-men. Then he was to

sweep the place and wait for Uncle Patas, his wife or sister-in-law to

awake. As soon as one of these came in Manuel would leave his place

behind the counter and, balancing a little basket upon his head, would

start off on his route delivering bread to the customers of the

vicinity. This going and returning would take all the morning. In the

afternoon the work was harder: Manuel would have to stand quietly

behind the counter in utter boredom, under the surveillance of the

proprietor's wife and his sister-in-law.

Accustomed to his daily strolls through the Rondas, Manuel was

rendered desperate by this immobility.

Uncle Patas' store, a tiny, ill-smelling hole, was papered in yellow

with green borders; the paper was coming off from sheer old age. A

wooden counter, a few dirty shelves, an oil lamp hanging from the

ceiling and two benches comprised the fixtures.

The back room, which was reached by a door at the rear, was a

compartment with no more light than could filter in through a transom

that opened upon the vestibule. This was the dining-room and led to

the kitchen, which in turn gave access to a narrow, very filthy patio

with a fountain. At the other side of the patio were the bedrooms of

Uncle Patas, his wife and his sister-in-law.

Manuel's sleeping quarters were a straw-bed and a couple of old cloaks

behind the counter. Here, especially at night, it reeked of rotten

cabbage: but what bothered Manuel even more was the getting up at

dawn, when the watchman struck two or three blows with his pike upon

the door of the store.

They sold something in the shop,--enough to live on and no more. In

this hovel Uncle Patas had saved up a fortune céntimo by céntimo.

Uncle Patas' history was really interesting. Manuel had learned it

from the gossip of the men who delivered the bread and from the boys

in the other stores.

Uncle Patas had come to Madrid from a hamlet of Lugo, at the age of

fifteen, in search of a living. Within twenty years, by dint of

unbelievable economies, he had hoarded up from his wages in a bakery

some three or four thousand pesetas, and with this capital he

established a little grocery. His wife stood behind the counter while

he continued to work in the bakery and hoard his earnings. When his

son grew up he assigned to the boy the running of a tavern and then of

a pawnbroker-shop. It was during this prosperous epoch that Uncle

Patas' wife died, and the man, now a widower, wishing to taste the

sweets of life, which had thus far proved so fruitless, married again

despite his fifty-odd years; the bride, a lass that came from his own

province, was only twenty and her sole object in marrying was to

change from servant to mistress. All of Uncle Patas' friends tried to

convince him that it was a monstrosity for a man of his years to wed,

and such a young girl at that; but he persisted in his notions and

married.

Within two months after the marriage the son had come to an

understanding with his step-mother, and shortly after this the elderly

husband made the discovery. One day he played the spy and saw his son

and his wife leave an assignation house in Santa Margarita Street.

Perhaps the man intended to take harsh steps, to speak a few

unvarnished words to the couple; but as he was soft and peaceful by

nature, and did not wish to disturb his business, he let the time go

by and grew little by little accustomed to his position. Somewhat

later, Uncle Patas' wife brought from her town a sister of hers, and

when she arrived, between the wife and the son she was forced upon the

old man, who concluded by taking up with his sister-in-law. Since that

time the four had lived in unbroken harmony. They understood one

another most admirably.

Manuel was not in the least astonished by this state of affairs; he

was cured of fear, for at La Corrala there was more than one

matrimonial combination of the sort. What did make him indignant was

the stinginess of Uncle Patas and his people.

All the scrupulousness which Uncle Patas' wife did not feel in other

matters she reserved, no doubt, for the accounts. Herself accustomed

to pilfer, she knew to the least detail every trick of the servants,

and not a céntimo escaped her; she always thought she was being

robbed. Such was her spirit of economy that at home they ate stale

bread, thus confirming the popular saying, "in the house of the smith,

a wooden knife."

The sister-in-law, an uncouth peasant with a stubby nose, carroty

cheeks, abundant breasts and hips, could give lessons in avarice to

her sister, while in the matter of immodesty and undignified

comportment she outdistanced her. She would go about the store with

her bosom exposed and there wasn't a delivery-man who missed a chance

to pinch her.

"What a fatty you are! Oh!" they would all exclaim.

And it was as if all this frequently fingered fat didn't belong to

her, for she raised no protest. Should any one, however, try to get

the best of her on the price of a roll, she would turn into a wild

beast.

On Sunday afternoons Uncle Patas, his wife and his sister-in-law were

in the habit of playing _mus_ on a little table in the middle of

the road; they never dared to leave the store alone.

After Manuel had been here for three months, Petra carne to see Uncle

Patas and asked him to give her boy a regular wage. Uncle Patas burst

into laughter; the request struck him as the very height of absurdity

and he answered No, that it was impossible, that the boy didn't even

earn the bread he ate.

Then Petra sought out another place for Manuel and brought him to a

bakery on Horno de la Mata Street where he was to learn the trade.

As the beginning of his apprenticeship he was assigned to the furnace

as assistant to the man who removed the loaves from the oven. The work

was beyond his strength. He had to get up at eleven in the night and

commence by scraping the iron pans in which the smaller loaves were

baked; after they were cleaned he would go over them with a brush

dipped in melted butter; this accomplished he would help his superior

remove the live coals from the oven with an iron instrument; then,

while the baker baked the bread he would lift very heavy boards laden

with rolls and carry them to the kneading-trough at the mouth of the

furnace; when the baker placed the rolls inside Manuel would take the

board back to the kneading-trough. As the bread came out of the oven

he would moisten it with a brush dipped in water so as to make the

crust shiny. At eleven in the morning the work was over, and during

the intervals of idleness Manuel and the workmen would sleep.

This life was horribly hard.

The bakery occupied a dark cellar, as gloomy as it was dirty. It was

below the level of the street and had two windows the panes of which

were so covered with dust and spiders' webs that only a murky,

yellowish light filtered through. They worked at all hours by gas.

The bakery was entered by a door that opened upon an ample patio, in

which was a shed of pierced zinc; this protected from the rain, or

tried to protect, at least, the loads of furze branch and the piles of

wood that were heaped up there.

From this patio a low door gave access to a long, but narrow and damp,

corridor that was everywhere black; only at the extreme end there was

a square of light that entered through a high window with a few

cracked, filthy panes,--a gloomy illumination.

When the eyes grew accustomed to the surrounding gloom they could make

out on the wall some delivery-baskets, bakers' peels, smocks, caps and

shoes hanging from nails, and on the ceiling thick, silvery cobwebs

covered with dust.

Half way along the corridor were a couple of doors opposite each

other; one led to the furnace, the other to the kneading room.

The furnace room was spacious, and the walls filmed with soot, so that

the place was as black as a camera obscura; a gas-jet burned in that

cavern, illuminating almost nothing. Before the mouth of the furnace,

against an iron shed, were placed the shovels; above, on the ceiling,

could be made out some large pipes that crossed each other.

The kneading room, less dark than the furnace room, was even more

somber. A pallid light shone in through the two windows that looked

into the patio, their panes encrusted with flour dust. There were

always some ten or twelve men in shirt-sleeves, brandishing their arms

desperately over the troughs, and in the back of the room a she-mule

slowly turned the kneading machine.

Life in the bakery was disagreeable and hard; the work was enervating

and the pay small: seven reales per day. Manuel, unaccustomed to the

heat of the furnace, turned dizzy; besides, when he moistened the

loaves fresh from the oven he would burn his fingers and it disgusted

him to see his hands begrimed with grease and soot.

He was also unlucky enough to have his bed placed in the kneaders'

room, beside that of an old workman of the shop who suffered from

chronic catarrh, as a result of having breathed so much flour into his

lungs; this fellow kept hawking away at all hours.

From sheer disgust Manuel found it impossible to sleep here, so he

went to the furnace kitchen and threw himself down upon the floor. He

was forever weary; but despite this, he worked automatically.

Then nobody paid any attention to him; the other bakers, a gang of

pretty rough Galicians, treated him as if he were a mule; none of them

even took the trouble to learn his name, and some addressed him, "Hey,

you, Choto!" while others cried "Hello, Barriga!" When they spoke of

him they referred to him as "the ragamuffin from Madrid" or simply,

"ragamuffin." He answered to whatever names and sobriquets they gave

him.

At first the most hateful of all these men, to Manuel, was the head

baker, who ordered him about in a despotic manner and grew angry if

things weren't done in a trice. This baker was a German named Karl

Schneider who had come to Spain as a vagrant, in evasion of military

service. He was about twenty-four or twenty-five, with limpid eyes,

and hair and moustache that were so fair as almost to be white.

A timid, phlegmatic fellow, he was frightened by everything and found

all things difficult. His strong impressions were manifested neither

in his motions nor his words, but in a sudden flush, which coloured

his cheeks and his forehead, and which would soon disappear and leave

an intense pallor.

Karl expressed himself very well in Spanish, but in a rare manner; he

knew a string of proverbs and phrases which he entangled inextricably;

this lent a quaint character to his conversation.

Manuel soon discovered that the German, despite his abruptness, was a

fine fellow, very innocent, very sentimental and of paradisiacal

simplicity.

After a month's work in the bakery Manuel had come to consider Karl as

his only friend; they treated each other as boon companions and

addressed each other in familiar terms; and if the baker often helped

his assistant in any task that required strength, he would in his

turn, on occasion, ask the boy's opinion and consult him regarding

sentimental complications and punctilios, which fascinated the German

and which Manuel settled with his natural perspicacity and the

instincts of a wandering child who has been convinced that all life's

motives are egotistical and base. This equality between master and

apprentice disappeared the moment Karl took up his position at the

mouth of the furnace. At such times Manuel had to obey the German

without cavil or delay.

Karl's one vice was drunkenness; he was forever thirsty; whenever he

slaked this thirst with wine and beer everything went well; he led a

methodical life and would spend his free hours on the Pinza, de

Oriente or in the Moncloa, reading the two volumes that comprised his

library: one, _Lost Illusions_, by Balzac and the other, a

collection of German poems.

These two books, constantly read, commented upon and annotated by him,

filled his head with fancies and dreams. Between the bitter,

despairing, yet fundamentally romantic ratiocinations of Balzac, and

the idealities of Goethe and Heine, the poor baker dwelt in the most

unreal of worlds. Often Karl would explain to Manuel the conflicts

between the persons of his favourite novel, and would ask how he would

act under similar circumstances. Manuel would usually hit upon so

logical, so natural, so little romantic a solution that the German

would stand perplexed and fascinated before the boy's clearness of

judgment; but soon, considering the selfsame theme anew, he would see

that such a solution would prove valueless to his sublimated

personages, for the very conflict of the novel would never have come

about amidst folk of common thoughts.

There came stretches of ten or twelve days when the German needed more

powerful stimulants than wine and literature, and he would get drunk

on whisky, drinking down half a flask as if it were so much water.

According to what he told Manuel, he was overwhelmed by an avalanche

of sadness; everything looked black and repulsive to his eyes, he felt

feverish and the one remedy for this melancholy was alcohol.

When he entered the tavern his heart was heavy and his head dull with

a surfeit of ugly notions, but as he drank he felt his heart grow

lighter and his breath come easier, while his head began to dance with

merry thoughts. When he left the tavern, however hard he tried, it was

impossible for him to preserve his dignity; laughter would flicker

upon his lips. Then songs of his native land would throng to his

memory and he would sing them aloud, beating time to them as he walked

on. As long as he went through the central thoroughfares he would walk

straight; no sooner did he reach the back streets, the deserted

avenues, than he would abandon himself to the pleasure of stumbling

along and staggering, with a bump here and a thump there. During these

moods everything seemed great and beautiful and superb to the German;

the sentimentalism of his race would overflow and he would begin to

recite verses and weep, and of whatever acquaintances he met on the

street he would beg forgiveness for his imaginary offence, asking

anxiously whether he still continued to enjoy their estimation and

offering his friendship.

However drunk he might be, he never forgot his duty and when the hour

for starting the night's baking arrived he would stagger off to the

bakery; the moment he took up his position before the mouth of the

furnace his intoxication evaporated and he set to work as soberly as

ever, himself laughing at his extravagances.

The German possessed remarkable organic powers and unheard-of

resistance; Manuel had to sleep during all his free time, and even at

that never rose from his bed completely rested. For the two months

that he spent in the bakery Manuel lived like an automaton. Work at

the furnace had so shifted about his hours of sleep that the days

seemed to him nights and the nights, days.

One day Manuel fell ill and all the strength that had been sustaining

him abandoned him suddenly; he gave up his job, took his two-week's

pay and without knowing how, fairly dragging himself thither, made his

way to the lodging-house.

Petra, finding him in this condition, made him go to bed, and Manuel

lay for nearly two weeks in the delirium of a very high fever. On

getting out it seemed that he had grown; he was much emaciated, and

felt in his whole body a great lassitude and languor and such a keen

sensitivity that any word the least mite too harsh would affect him to

the point of tears.

When he was able to go out into the street again, he bought, at

Petra's suggestion, a gold-plated brooch which he presented to Doña

Casiana; she was so pleased with the gift that she told her servant

the boy might remain in the house until he was completely recovered.

Those days were among the most pleasant that Manuel ever spent in his

whole life; the one thing that bothered him was hunger.

The weather was superb and in the mornings Manuel would go strolling

along the Retiro. The journalist whom they called Superman employed

Manuel in copying his notes and articles, and as compensation, no

doubt, let him take novels by Paul de Kock and Pigault-Lebrun, some of

them highly spiced, as for example _Nuns and Corsairs_ and

_That Rascal Gustave_.

The love theories of these two writers convinced Manuel so well that

he tried to put them into practise with the landlady's niece. During

the previous two years she had developed so fully that she was already

a woman.

One night, during the early hour after supper, either through the

influence of the spring season or in obedience to the theories of the

author of _Nuns and Corsairs_, Manuel persuaded the landlady's

girl of the advantages of a very private consultation, and a neighbour

saw the two of them depart together upstairs and enter the garret.

As they were about to shut themselves in, the neighbour surprised them

and brought them, deeply contrite, into the presence of Doña Casiana.

The thrashing that the landlady administered to her niece deprived the

girl of all desire for new adventures and the aunt of any strength to

administer another to Manuel.

"Out into the street with you!" she bawled at him, seizing him by the

arm and sinking her nails into his flesh. "And make sure that I never

see you here again, for I'll brain you!"

Manuel, stricken with shame and confusion, wished nothing better at

that moment than a chance to escape, and he dashed into the street as

fast as he could get there, like a beaten cur. The night was cool and

inviting. As he didn't have a céntimo, he soon wearied of sauntering

about; he called at the bakery, asked for Karl the baker, they opened

the place to him and he stretched himself out on one of the beds. At

dawn he was awakened by the voice of one of the bakers, who was

shouting:

"Hey, you! Loafer! Clear out!"

Manuel got up and went out into the street. He strolled along toward

the Viaduct, to his favourite spot, to survey the landscape and

Segovia street.

It was a glorious spring morning. In the grove near the Campo del Moro

some soldiers were drilling to the sound of bugle and drums; from a

stone chimney on the Ronda de Segovia puffs of dark smoke issued forth

to stain the clear, diaphanous sky; in the laundries on the banks of

the Manzanares the clothes hung out to dry shone with a white

refulgence.

Manuel slowly crossed the Viaduct, reached Las Vistillas and watched

some rag-dealers sorting out their materials after emptying the

contents of their sacks upon the ground. He sat down for a while in

the sun. With his eyes narrowed to a slit he could make out the arches

of the Almudena church just above a wall; beyond rose the Royal

Palace, a glittering white, the sandy clearings of the Principe Pío

with its long red barracks, and the row of houses on the Paseo de

Rosales, their panes aglow with the sunlight.

Toward the Casa de Campo several brown, bare knolls stood out, topped

by two or three pines that looked as if they had been cut out and

pasted upon the blue atmosphere.

From Las Vistillas Manuel walked down to the Ronda de Segovia. As he

sauntered along Aguila Street he noticed that Señor Ignacio's place

was still closed. Manuel went into the house and asked in the patio

for Salomé.

"She must be at work in the house," they told him.

He climbed up the stairway and knocked at the door; from within came

the hum of a sewing-machine.

Salomé opened the door and Manuel entered. The seamstress was as

pretty as ever, and, as ever, working. Her two boys had not yet

entered colegio. Salomé told Manuel that Señor Ignacio had been in

hospital and that he was now looking around for some money with which

to pay off his debts and continue his business. Leandra at that moment

was down by the river, Señor Jacoba at her post, and Vidal loafing

around with no desire to work. He simply couldn't be kept away from

the company of a certain cross-eyed wretch who was worse than disease

itself, and had become a tramp. The two of them were always seen with

bad women in the stands and lunch-rooms of the Andalucía road.

Manuel told her of his experiences as a baker and how he had fallen

ill; what he did not relate however, was the tale of his dismissal

from the house where his mother was employed.

"That's no kind of job for you. You ought to learn some trade that

requires less strength," was Salomé's advice.

Manuel spent the whole morning chatting with the seamstress; she

invited him to a bite and he accepted with pleasure.

In the afternoon Manuel left Salomé's house with the thought that if

he were a few years older and had a decent, paying position, he would

marry her, even if he found himself compelled to get the tough who

went with her out of the way with a knife.

Once again upon the Ronda, the first thought that came to Manuel was

that he ought not to go to the Toledo Bridge, nor be in any greater

hurry to reach the Andalucía road, for it was very easy to happen upon

Vidal or Bizco there. He pondered the thought deeply, and yet, despite

this, he took the direction of the bridge, glanced into the sands, and

failing to find his friends there continued along the Canal, crossed

the Manzanares by one of the laundry bridges and came out on Andalucía

road. In a lunch-room that sheltered a few tables beneath its roof

were Vidal and Bizco in company of a group of idlers playing cané.

"Hey, you, Vidal!" shouted Manuel.

"The deuce! Is it you?" exclaimed his cousin.

"As you see...."

"And what are you doing?"

"Nothing. And you?"

"Whatever comes our way."

Manuel watched them play cané. After they had finished a hand, Vidal

said:

"What do you say to a walk?"

"Come on."

"Are you coming, Bizco?"

"Yes."

The three set out along the Andalucía road.

Vidal and Bizco led a thieves' existence, stealing here a horse

blanket, there the electric bulbs of a staircase or telephone wires;

whatever turned up. They did not venture to operate in the heart of

Madrid as they were not yet, in their opinion, sufficiently expert.

Only a few days before, told Vidal, they had, between them, robbed a

fellow of a she-goat, on the banks of the Manzanares near the Toledo

bridge. Vidal had entertained the chap at the game of tossing coins

while Bizco had seized the goat and pulled her up the slope of the

pines to Las Yeserías, afterward taking her to Las Injurias. Then

Vidal, indicating the opposite direction to their dupe, had shouted:

"Run, run, there goes your goat." And as the youth trotted off in the

direction indicated, Vidal escaped to Las Injurias, joining Bizco and

his sweetheart. They were still dining on the goat's meat.

"That's what you ought to do," suggested Vidal. "Come with us. This is

the life of a lord! Why, listen here. The other day Juan el Burra and

El Arenero came upon a dead hog on the road to Las Yeserías. A

swineherd was on his way with a herd of them to the slaughter-house,

when they found out that the animal had died; the fellow left it

there, and Juan el Burra and El Arenero dragged it to their house,

quartered it, and we friends of his have been eating hog for more than

a week. I tell you, it's a lord's life!"

According to what Vidal said, all the thieves knew each other, even to

the most distant sections of the city. Their life was outside the pale

of society and an admirable one, indeed; today they were to meet at

the Four Roads, in three or four days at the Vallecas Bridge or at La

Guindelara; they helped each other.

Their radius of activities was a zone bounded by the extreme of the

Casa del Campo, where the inn of Agapito and the Alcorcón restaurants

were, as far as Los Carabancheles; from here, the banks of the

Abronigal, La Elipa, El Este, Las Ventas and La Conceptión as far as

La Prosperidad; then Tetuán as far as the Puerta de Hierro. In summer

they slept in yards and sheds of the suburbs.

The thieves of the city's centre were a better-dressed, more

aristocratic lot; each of these had his woman, whose earnings he

managed and who took good care of him. The outcasts of the heart of

the city were a distinct class with other gradations.

There were times when Bizco and Vidal had gone through intense want,

existing upon cats and rats and seeking shelter in the caves upon San

Blas hill, of Madrid Moderno, and in the Eastern Cemetery. But by this

time the pair knew their business.

"And work? Nothing?" asked Manuel.

"Work! ... Let the cat work," scoffed Vidal.

They didn't work, stuttered Bizco; who was going to get fresh with him

while he had his trusty steel in his hand?

Into the brain of this wild beast there had not penetrated, even

vaguely, any idea of rights or duties. No duties, no rights or

anything at all. To him, might was right; the world was a hunting

wood. Only humble wretches could obey the law of labour. That's what

he said: Let fools work, if they hadn't the nerve to live like men.

As the three thus conversed a man and a woman with a child in her arms

passed by. They looked dejected, like famished, persecuted folk, their

glance timid and awed.

"There's the workers for you," exclaimed Vidal. "That's how they are."

"The devil take them," muttered Bizco.

"Where are they bound for?" asked Manuel, eyeing them sympathetically.

"To the tile-works," answered Vidal. "To sell saffron, as we say

around here."

"And why do they say that?"

"Because saffron is so dear...."

The three came to a halt and lay down upon the sod. For more than an

hour they remained there, discussing women and ways and means of

procuring money.

"Got any money about you?" asked Vidal of Manuel and Bizco.

"Two reales," replied the latter.

"Well, then, invite us to something," suggested Vidal. "Let's have a

bottle."

Bizco assented, grumblingly, so they arose and took their way toward

Madrid. A procession of whitish mules filed past them; a young,

swarthy gipsy, with a long stick under his arm, mounted upon the last

mule of the procession, kept shouting at every step: "Coroné, coroné!"

"So long, swell!" shouted Vidal to him.

"God be with all good folk," answered the gipsy in a hoarse voice.

They reached a road tavern beside a ragpicker's hut, stopped, and

Vidal ordered the bottle of wine.

"What's this factory?" asked Manuel, pointing to a structure at the

left of the Andalucía road on the way back to Madrid.

"They make money out of blood," answered Vidal solemnly.

Manuel stared at him in fright.

"Yes. They make glue out of the blood that's left over in the

slaughter-house," added his cousin, laughing.

Vidal poured the wine into the glasses and the three gulped it down.

Yonder, above the avenue of trees on the Canal, could be made out

Madrid, with its long, level cluster of houses. The windows, lit up by

the flush of the setting sun, glowed like live coals; in the

foreground, just below San Francisco el Grande, bulked the red tanks

of the gas factory with their high steel beams, amidst the obscure

rubbish-heaps; from the centre of the city rose tiny towers and low

chimneys which belched forth black puffs of smoke that seemed to rest

motionless in the tranquil atmosphere. At one side, upon a hill,

towered the Observatory, whose windows sparkled with the sun; at the

other, the Guadarama range, blue with crests of white, was outlined

against the clear, transparent heavens furrowed by red clouds.

"Bah," added Vidal, after a moment's silence, turning to Manuel.

"You've got to come with us; we'll make a gang."

"That's the talk," stammered Bizco.

"All right. I'll see," responded Manuel unwillingly.

"What do you mean, you'll see? The gang's already formed. We'll call

it the gang of The Three."

"Fine!" shouted Bizco.

"And we'll help each other?" inquired Manuel.

"Of course we will," assured his cousin. "And if any one of us should

prove a traitor...."

"If any one proves a traitor," interrupted Bizco, "his guts'll be

ripped out." And to lend force to his declaration he drew out his dirk

and plunged it viciously into the table.

At nightfall the three returned by the road to the Toledo bridge and

separated at that point, after arranging to meet on the morrow.

Manuel wondered just what he was committed to by the promise made to

be a member of The Three. The life led by Bizco and Vidal frightened

him. He must resolve to turn over a new leaf; but what was he to do?

That was what puzzled him.

For some time Manuel did not dare to put in an appearance at the

lodging-house; he would meet his mother in the street and he slept in

the entry of the house where one of his sisters was employed. Later it

came to pass that the landlady's niece was found in the bedroom of a

neighbouring student, and this served to rehabilitate Manuel somewhat

in the boarding-house.

CHAPTER II

One of the Many Disagreeable Ways of Dying in Madrid--The

Orphan--El Cojo and His Cave--Night in the Observatory.

One day Manuel was not a little surprised to learn that his mother had

not been able to get up and that she was ill. For some time she had

been coughing up blood, but had considered this of no importance.

Manuel presented himself humbly at the house and the landlady, instead

of greeting him with recriminations, asked him in to see his mother.

The only thing Petra complained of was a terrible bruised feeling all

over the body and a pain in her back.

For days and days she had gone on thus, now better, now worse, until

she began to run a high fever and was compelled to call in the doctor.

The landlady said that they'd have to take the sick woman to the

hospital; but as she was a kind-hearted soul she did not insist.

Petra had already confessed several times to the priest of the house.

Manuel's sisters came from time to time, but neither brought the money

necessary to the purchase of the medicines and the food that were

prescribed by the doctor.

One Sunday, toward night, Petra took a turn for the worse; during the

afternoon she had been conversing spiritedly with her daughters; but

this animation had subsided until she was overwhelmed by a mortal

collapse.

That Sunday night Doña Casiana's lodgers had an unusually succulent

supper, and after the supper several ronquillas for dessert, watered

by the purest concoction of the Prussian distilleries.

The spree was still in progress at ten o'clock. Petra said to Manuel:

"Call Don Jacinto and tell him that I'm worse."

Manuel went to the dining-room. He could barely make out the congested

faces through the thick tobacco smoke that filled the atmosphere. As

Manuel entered, one of the merrymakers said:

"A little less noise; there's somebody sick."

Manuel delivered the message to the priest.

"Your mother's scared, that's all. I'll come a little later," replied

Don Jacinto.

Manuel returned to the room.

"Isn't he coming?" asked the sick woman.

"He'll be here right away. He says you're only scared."

"Yes. A fine scare," she murmured sadly. "Stay here."

Manuel sat down upon a trunk; he was so sleepy, he could hardly see.

He was just dozing off when his mother called to him.

"Listen," she said. "Go into the room and fetch the picture of the

Virgin of Sorrows."

Manuel took down the picture,--a cheap cromograph,--and brought it to

the bedroom.

"Place it at the foot of the bed so that I can see it."

The boy did as he was requested and returned to his seat. From the

dining-room came a din of songs, hand-clapping and castanets.

Suddenly Manuel, who was half asleep, heard a loud, rasping sound

issue from his mother's chest, and at the same time he noticed that

her face had become paler than ever and was twitching strangely.

"What's the matter?"

The sufferer made no reply. Then Manuel ran to notify the priest

again. Grumblingly he left the dining-room, looked at the sick woman

and said to the boy:

"Your mother's dying. Stay here, and I'll be back at once with the

extreme unction."

The priest ordered the merrymakers in the dining-room to cease their

racket and the whole house became silent.

Nothing could be heard now save cautious footfalls, the opening and

closing of doors, followed by the stertorous breathing of the dying

woman and the tick-tock of the corridor clock.

The priest arrived with another who wore a stole and administered all

the rites of the extreme unction. After the vicar and the sacristan

had gone, Manuel looked at his mother and saw her livid features, her

drooping jaw. She was dead.

The youngster was left alone in the room, which was dimly lighted by

the oil lamp; there he sat on the trunk, trembling with cold and fear.

He spent the whole night thus; from time to time the landlady would

enter in her underclothes and ask Manuel something or offer some bit

of advice which, for the most part, he did not understand.

That night Manuel thought and suffered as perhaps he never thought and

suffered at any other time; he meditated upon the usefulness of life

and upon death with a perspicacity that he had never possessed.

However hard he might try, he could not stem the flood of thoughts

that merged one with the other.

At four in the morning the whole house was in silence, when there was

heard the rattle of a latchkey in the stairway door, followed by

footsteps in the corridor and then the querulous tinkling of the

music-box upon the vestibule-table, playing the Mandolinata.

Manuel awoke with a start, as from a dream; he could not make out

where the music was coming from; he even imagined that he had lost his

head. The little organ, after several hitches and asthmatic sobs,

abandoned the Mandolinata and began to roll off in double time the

duet between Bettina and Pippo from _La Mascotte_:

_Will you forget me, gentle swain,

Dressed in this lordly finery?_

Manuel left the bedroom and asked, through the darkness:

"Who is it?"

At the same moment voices were heard from every room. The music-box

cut short the duet from _La Mascotte_ and launched spiritedly

into the strains of Garibaldi's hymn. Suddenly the music stopped and a

hoarse voice shouted:

"Paco! Paco!"

The landlady got up and asked who was making all that racket; one of

the men who had just entered the house explained in a whisky-soaked

voice that they were students who boarded on the third floor, and had

just come from the ball in search of Paco, one of the salesmen. The

landlady told them that some one had died in the house and one of the

drunkards, who was a student of medicine, said he would like to view

the corpse. He was persuaded to change his mind and everybody went

back to his place. The next day Manuel's sisters were notified and

Petra was buried....

On the day after the interment Manuel left the boarding-house and said

farewell to Doña Casiana.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know. I'll see."

"I can't keep you here, but I don't want you to starve. Come here from

time to time."

After walking about town all the morning, Manuel found himself at noon

on the Ronda de Toledo, leaning against the wall of Las Americas, at a

loss to know what to do with himself. To one side, likewise seated

upon the turf, was a loathsome, terribly ugly, flat-nosed gamin, with

a clouded eye, bare feet, and a tattered jacket through whose rents

could be glimpsed his dark skin, which had been tanned by the sun and

wind. Hanging from his neck was a canister into which he threw the

cigarette ends that he gathered.

"Where do you live?" Manuel asked him.

"I haven't any father or mother," answered the urchin, evasively.

"What's your name?"

"The Orphan."

"And why do they call you that?"

"Why! Because I'm a foundling."

"And didn't you ever have a home?"

"No."

"And where do you sleep?"

"Well, in the summer I sleep in the caves, or in yards, and in winter,

in the asphalt caldrons."

"And when they're not doing any asphalting?"

"In some shelter or other."

"All right, then. But what do you eat?"

"Whatever I'm given."

"And do you manage to do well?"

Either the foundling did not understand the question or it appeared

quite silly to him, for he merely shrugged his shoulders. Manuel

continued his curious interrogatory.

"Aren't your feet cold?"

"No."

"And don't you do anything?"

"Psch! ... whatever turns up. I pick up stubs, I sell sand, and when I

can't earn anything I go to the María Cristina barracks."

"What for?"

"What for? For a meal, of course."

"And where's this barracks?"

"Near the Atocha station. Why? Would you like to go there, too?"

"Yes, I would."

"Well, let's come along then, or we'll miss mess time."

The two got up and started on their journey. The Orphan begged at the

stores on the road and was given two slices of bread and a small coin.

"Will you have some, _ninchi?_" he asked, offering Manuel one of

the slices.

"Hand it over."

By the Ronda de Atocha they reached the Estación de Mediodía.

"Do you know the time?" asked the Orphan.

"Yes. It's eleven."

"Well then, it's too early to go to the barracks."

Opposite the station a lady, from the seat of a coach, was making a

speech proclaiming the wonders of a salve for wounds and a specific

for curing the toothache.

The Orphan, biting away at his slice of bread, interrupted the speech

of the lady in the coach, shouting ironically:

"Give me a slice to take away my toothache!"

"And another one to me!" added Manuel.

The husband of the speechmaker, an old fellow wearing a very long

raglan and standing amidst the crowd of spectators listening with the

greatest respect to what his better half was saying, grew indignant

and speaking but half Spanish, cried:

"If I catch you your teeth'll ache for fair."

"This gentleman came from Archipipi," interrupted the Orphan.

The old codger tried to catch one of the urchins. Manuel and the

Orphan ran off, dodging the man in the raglan and planting themselves

opposite him.

"Impudent rascals," shouted the gentleman. "I'll give you a hiding and

maybe your teeth won't really ache by the time I'm through with you."

"But they hurt already," chorused the ragamuffins.

The old fellow, exasperated beyond endurance, gave frantic chase to

the urchins; a group of idlers and news-vendors jostled against him as

if by accident, and the pursuer, perspiring freely and wiping his face

with his handkerchief, went off in search of an officer.

"Fakir, froggie, beggar!" shouted the Orphan derisively at him.

Then, laughing at their prank, they returned to the barracks and took

place at the end of a line composed of poverty-stricken folk and

tramps who were waiting for a meal. An old woman who had already eaten

lent them a tin in which to place their food.

They ate and then, in company of other tattered youngsters climbed the

sandy slopes of San Blas hill to get a view from that spot of the

soldiers on Atocha avenue.

Manuel stretched out lazily in the sun, filled with the joy of finding

himself absolutely free of worriment, of gazing upon the azure sky

which extended into the infinite. Such blissful comfort induced in him

a deep sleep.

When he awoke it was already mid-afternoon and the wind was chasing

dark clouds across the heavens. Manuel sat up; there was a knot of

gamins close by, but the Orphan was nowhere to be seen.

A dense black cloud came up and blotted out the sun; shortly afterward

it began to rain.

"Shall we go to Cojo's cave?" asked one of the boys.

"Come on."

The entire band of ragamuffins broke into a run in the direction of

the Retiro, with Manuel hard after them. The thick raindrops fell in

slanting, steel-hued lines; a stray sunbeam glittered from the sky

through the dark violet clouds which were so long that they looked

like huge, motionless fishes.

Ahead of the ragamuffins, at an appreciable distance, ran two women

and two men.

"They're Rubia and Chata with a couple of hayseeds," said one of the

gamins.

"They're running to the cave," added another.

The boys reached the top of the hill; before the entrance to the cave,

which was nothing but a hole dug out of the sand, sat a one-legged man

smoking a pipe.

"We're going in," announced one of the urchins to Cojo.

"You can't," he replied.

"And why not?"

"Because you can't."

"Man! Let's get in until the rain stops."

"Impossible."

"Why? Are Rubia and Chata inside?"

"What do you care if they are?"

"Shall we give those hayseeds a scare?" asked one of the ragamuffins,

whose ears were covered by long black locks.

"Just try it and see," growled Cojo, seizing a rock.

"Come on to the Observatory," said another. "We won't get wet there."

The gang turned back, hurdled a wall that stood in their path and took

refuge in the portico of the Observatory on the Atocha side. The wind

was blowing from the Guadarrama range so that they were in the lee.

For the afternoon and part of the evening the rain came pouring down;

they passed the time chatting about women, thefts and crimes. Two or

three of these youngsters had a home to go to, but they didn't care to

go. One, who was called El Mariané, related a number of notable tricks

and swindles; others, who displayed prodigious skill and ingenuity,

roused the gathering to enthusiasm. After this theme had been

exhausted, a few suggested a game of cané, and the idler with the long

black locks, whom they called El Canco, sang in a low feminine voice

several _flamenco_ songs.

At night, as it grew cold, they lay down quite close to each other

upon the ground and continued their conversations. Manuel was repelled

by the malevolent spirit of the gang; one of them told a story about

an aged fellow of eighty, "old Rainbow," who used to sleep furtively

in the Manzanares laundry in a hole formed by four mats; one night

when an icy cold wind was blowing they opened two of his mats and the

next day he was found frozen to death; El Mariané recounted how he had

been with a cousin of his, a cavalry sergeant, in a public house and

how the sergeant mounted upon a naked woman's back and gashed her

thighs with his spurs.

"The fact is," concluded El Mariané, "there's nothing like making

women suffer if you want to keep 'em satisfied."

Manuel listened in astonishment to this counsel; his mind reverted to

that seamstress who came to the landlady's house, and then to Salomé,

and it occurred to him that he would not care to have made them love

him by inflicting pain. He fell asleep with these notions whirling in

his head.

When he awoke he felt the cold penetrating to his very marrow. Day was

breaking and the rain had ceased; the sky, still dim, was strewn with

greyish clouds. Above a hedge of shrubs shone a star in the middle of

the horizon's pale band, and against this opaline glow stood out the

intertwined branches of the trees, which were still without leaves.

The whistles of the locomotives could be heard from the nearby

station; toward Carabanchel the lantern lights were paling in the dark

fields, which could be glimpsed by the vague luminosity of nascent

day.

Madrid, level, whitish, bathed in mist, rose out of the night with its

many roofs, which cut the sky in a straight line; its turrets, its

lofty factory chimneys; and amidst the silence of the dawn, the city

and the landscape suggested the unreality and the motionlessness of a

painting.

The sky became clearer, growing gradually blue. Now the new white

houses stood out more sharply; the high partition-walls, pierced

symmetrically by tiny windows; the roofs, the corners, the

balustrades, the red towers of recent construction, the army of

chimneys, all enveloped in the cold, sad, damp, atmosphere of morning,

beneath a low zinc-hued sky.

Beyond the city proper, afar, rolled the Madrilenian plain in gentle

undulations, toward the mists of dawn; the Manzanares meandered along,

as narrow as a band of silver; it sought the Los Angeles hill,

crossing barren fields and humble districts, finally to curve and lose

itself in the grey horizon. Towering above Madrid the Guadarrama

loomed like a lofty blue rampart, its summits capped with snow.

In the midst of this silence a church bell began its merry pealing,

but the chimes were lost in the somnolent city.

Manuel felt very cold and commenced pacing back and forth, rubbing his

shoulders and his legs. Absorbed in this operation, he did not see a

man in a boina, with a lantern in his hand, who approached him and

asked:

"What are you doing here?"

Without replying, Manuel broke into a run down the hill; shortly

afterward the rest of the gang came scurrying down, awaked by the

kicks of the man in the boina.

As they reached the Velasco Museum, El Mariané said:

"Let's see if we can't play a dirty trick on that damned Cojo."

"Yes. Come on."

By a side path they climbed back to the spot where they had been on

the previous afternoon. From the caves of San Blas hill came a few

ragamuffins crawling out on all fours; frightened by the sound of

voices and thinking, doubtless, that the police had come to make a

raid, they set off on a mad run, naked, with their ragged clothing

under their arms.

They made their way to Cojo's cave; El Mariané proposed that as a

punishment for his not having let them go in the day before, they

should pile a heap of grass before the entrance to the cave and set

fire to the place.

"No, man, that's monstrous," objected El Canco. "The fellow hires out

his cave to Rubia and Chata, who hang around here and have customers

in the barracks. He has to respect his agreements with them."

"Well, we'll have to give him a lesson," retorted El Mariané. "You'll

see." Whereupon he crawled into the cave and reappeared soon with El

Cojo's wooden leg in one hand and a stewpot in the other.

"Cojo! Cojo!" he shouted.

At these cries the cripple stuck his head out of the entrance to the

cave, dragging himself along on his hands, bellowing blasphemies in

fury.

"Cojo! Cojo!" yelled El Mariané again, as if inciting a dog. "There

goes your leg! And your dinner's following after!" As he spoke, he

seized the wooden leg and the pot and sent them rolling down the

slope.

Then they all broke into a run for the Ronda de Vallecas. Above the

heights and valleys of the Pacífico district the huge red disk of the

sun rose from the earth and ascended slowly and majestically behind a

cluster of grimy huts.

CHAPTER III

Meeting with Roberto--Roberto Narrates the Origin of a Fantastic

Fortune.

Manuel was compelled to return to the bakery in quest of work, and

there, thanks to Karl's intercession with the proprietor, the boy

spent a while as a substitute for a delivery-man.

Manuel understood that this was hardly a suitable thing for him as a

regular position, and that it would get him nowhere; but he was at a

loss what to do, what road to take.

When he was left without a job, he managed to exist as long as he had

enough to pay for a chop-house meal. There came a day when he was

stranded without a céntimo and he resorted to the María Cristina

barracks.

For two or three days he had been taking up his position among the

beggars of the breadline, when once he caught sight of Roberto

entering the barracks. He did not go over to him, as he feared to lose

his place, but after eating he waited until Roberto came out.

"Don Roberto!" hailed Manuel.

The student turned deathly pale; at sight of Manuel he regained his

composure.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"You can see for yourself. I come here to eat. I can't find work."

"Ah! You come here to eat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I come for the same reason," murmured Roberto, laughing.

"You?"

"Yes. I have been cheated out of my rightful fortune."

"And what are you doing now?"

"I'm working on a newspaper, waiting until there's a vacancy. At the

barracks I made friends with a sculptor who comes here for his meals,

too, and we both live in a garret. I laugh at such things, for I am

convinced that some day I'm going to be wealthy, and when I am, I'll

recall these hard times with pleasure."

"He's beginning to rave already," thought Manuel.

"Then you don't believe that I'm going to be a rich man some day?"

"Certainly. Of course I do!"

"Where are you going?" asked Roberto.

"Nowhere in particular."

"Let's take a stroll."

"Come on."

They walked down to Alfonso XII Street and went into the Retiro; when

they had gone as far as the end of the carriage drive they sat down on

a bench.

"We'll drive along here in a carriage when I become a millionaire,"

said Roberto.

"You mean you.... As for me...." replied Manuel.

"You, too. Do you imagine that I'm going to let you stand in the

barrack's bread line when I have my millions?"

"He's truly a bit off his base," thought Manuel, "but he has a kind

heart." Then he added. "Have your affairs been making much progress?"

"No, not much. The question is still pretty well tangled. But it will

be straightened out, mark my word."

"Do you know that that circus chap with the phonograph showed up one

day with a woman named Rosa?" said Manuel. "I went hunting for you to

see whether she was the one you were talking about."

"No. The one I was looking for is dead."

"Then your case is all cleared up?"

"Yes. But I need money. Don Telmo was ready to lend me ten thousand

duros on condition that I'd give him half of the fortune as soon as I

entered into possession of it, if I won. But I refused."

"How foolish."

"What's more, he wants me to marry his niece."

"And you didn't want to?"

"No."

"But she's pretty."

"Yes. But she's not to my taste."

"What? Are you still thinking of the Baroness's daughter?"

"How could I forget her! I've seen her. She is exquisite."

"Yes. She's certainly good-looking."

"Only good-looking! Don't blaspheme. The moment I saw her, my mind was

made up. It's sink or swim for me."

"You run the risk of being left with nothing."

"I know that. I don't care. All or nothing. The Hastings have always

been men of will and resolution. And I'm inspired by the example of

one of my relatives. It's an invigorating case of pertinacity. You'll

see."

"My uncle, the brother of my grandfather, was employed in a London

business house and learned, through a sailor, that a chest filled with

silver had been dug up on one of the islands in the Pacific; it was

supposed that it came from a vessel that had left Peru for the

Philippines. My uncle succeeded in finding out the exact spot where

the ship had been wrecked, and at once he gave up his position and

went off to the Philippines. He chartered a brig, reached the spot

indicated,--a reef of the Magellan archipelago,--they sounded at

several points and after hard work dredged up only a few shattered

chests that contained not a trace of anything. When their food supply

gave out they were forced to return, and my uncle reached Manila

without a farthing. He got a position in a business house. After a

year of this a fellow from the United States proposed that they should

go out together in quest of the treasure, and my uncle accepted, on

the condition that they'd share the profits equally. On this second

voyage they brought up two huge, very heavy chests, one filled with

silver ingots, the other with Mexican gold pieces. The Yankee and my

uncle divided the money and each one's share amounted to more than one

hundred thousand duros. But my uncle, who was an obstinate fellow,

returned to the site of the shipwreck and this time he must have

located the treasure, for he came back to England with a colossal

fortune. Today the Hastings, who still live in England, are

millionaires. Do you remember that Fanny who came to the tavern in Las

Injurias with us?"

"Yes."

"Well, she's one of the wealthy Hastings of England."

"Then why didn't you ask them for some money?" queried Manuel.

"No, never. Not even if I were dying of hunger, and this despite the

fact that they've often offered to help me. Before coming to Madrid I

sailed almost around the world in a yacht belonging to Fanny's

brother."

"And this fortune that you expect to own, is it also on some island?"

asked Manuel.

"It seems to me that you're of the kind that have no faith," answered

Roberto. "Before the crowing of the cock you would deny me three

times."

"No. I know nothing of your affairs; but if you should ever need me,

I'll be ready to serve you, and gladly."

"But you doubt my destiny, and are wrong to do so. You imagine that

I'm a bit daft."

"No, no, sir."

"Bah! You think that this fortune that I'm to inherit is all a hoax."

"I don't know."

"Well, it isn't. The fortune exists. Do you remember I was once

talking with Don Telmo, in your presence, about a conversation I had

with a certain book-binder in his house?"

"Yes, sir. I remember."

"Well, that conversation furnished me with the clew to all the

investigations I afterward conducted; I won't tell you how I went

about collecting data and more data, little by little, for that would

bore you. I'll put the thing for you in a nutshell."

As he finished his sentence Roberto arose from the bench upon which

they were seated and said to Manuel:

"Let's be going; that fellow yonder is hanging around trying to hear

what we're talking about."

Manuel got up, surer than ever that Roberto was crazy on that point;

they walked by El Angel Caído, reached the Meteorological Observatory

and from there left for the hills that lie opposite the Pacífico and

the Doña Carlota districts.

"We can talk here," murmured Roberto. "If any one comes along, let me

know."

"Don't worry on that score," assured Manuel.

"Well, as I was telling you, that conversation provided the foundation

of a fortune that will soon be mine; but see how clumsy a fellow can

be and how ill things look when they're too near. Until a full year

after I had had that conversation I made no attempt to start my case.

The first efforts I made about two years ago. The idea came to me on

one Carnival day. I was giving lessons in English and studying at the

University; of the little money I earned I had to send some to my

mother and the rest went toward my upkeep and my tuition fees. This

Carnival day,--a Tuesday, I remember,--I had no more than three

pesetas to my name; I had been working so hard and so steadily,

without a moment's let-up, that I said to myself: 'Yes, sir. Today I'm

going to do something foolish. I'm going to disguise myself. And

surely enough, on San Marcos Street I hired a domino and a mask for

three pesetas, and I went out on to the street with not a céntimo in

my pocket. I began to walk down toward La Castellana and as I reached

the Cibeles fountain I stopped and asked myself in astonishment: 'Why

did I have to spend the little money I had on me for a disguise, when

I know nobody anyway?'

"I was about to return and get rid of my disguise, but there were so

many people in the crowd that I had to float with the tide. I don't

know whether you've ever noticed how lonesome one feels on these

Carnival days amidst the throngs of people. This solitude in the crowd

is far more intense than solitude in a forest. It brought to my mind

the thousand absurdities one commits; the sterility of my own life.

'I'm going to waste my life in some grubbing profession,' I said to

myself. 'I'll wind up by becoming a teacher, a sort of English

instructress. No; never that. I must seek an opportunity and the means

to emancipate myself from this petty existence, or else plunge into

tragic life.' It also occurred to me that it was very possible that

the opportunity had come to me without my knowing how to take

advantage of it, and at once I recalled my conversation with that

book-binder. I decided to go into the matter until I saw it more

clearly. Without any hope, you'll understand, but simply as an

exercise of the will. 'I need more will-power,' I said to myself,

'with which to conquer the details that come up every moment rather

than to perform some great sacrifice or be capable of an instant of

abnegation. Sublime moments, heroic acts, are rather the deeds of an

exalted intelligence than of the will; I have always felt it in me to

perform some great deed such as taking a trench or defending a

barricade or going to the North Pole; but, would I be capable of

finishing a daily stint, composed of petty provocations and dull

routine? Yes,' said I to myself, and with this resolution I mingled

with the masked merrymakers and returned to Madrid while the rest were

at the height of their fun."

"And have you been working ever since?"

"Ever since, and with rapid persistency. The book-binder didn't care

to give me any details, so I installed myself in the Casa de

Canónigos, asked for the Libro de Turnos and there from day to day I'd

look over list after list until I found the date of the lawsuit; from

there I went to Las Salesas, located the archive and I spent an entire

month in a garret opening dockets until I found the documents. Then I

had to get baptismal certificates, seek recommendations from a bishop,

run hither and thither, intrigue, scurry to this place and that, until

the question began to clear up, and with all my documents properly

arranged I presented my claim at London. During these two years I laid

the foundations for the tower to the top of which I'll climb yet."

"And are you sure that the foundations are solid?"

"Certainly. They're all facts. Here they are," and Roberto drew from

his pocket a folded paper. "This is the genealogical tree of my

family. This red circle is Don Fermín Núñez de Latona, priest of

Labraz, who goes to Venezuela at the end of the seventeenth century,

and returns to Spain during the Trafalgar epoch. On his journey home

an English vessel captures the Spanish ship on which the priest is

sailing and takes him and the other passengers prisoner, transporting

them to England. Don Fermín reclaims his fortune of the English

government, it is returned to him and he deposits it in the Bank of

England, and sails back to Spain during the War of Independence. As

money was none too safe in Spain at that time, Don Fermín leaves his

fortune in the Bank of England, and on one occasion, desiring to

withdraw a large sum for the purchase of certain estates, he goes to

England with a cousin's niece;--the cousin was his only relation and

was named Juan Antonio. This niece--" and Roberto pointed to a circle

upon the sheet, "marries an Irish gentleman, Bandon, and dies after

three years. The priest Don Fermín decides to return to Spain and

orders his fortune to be remitted to the San Fernando Bank, but before

the money is transferred Don Fermín dies. Bandon, the Irishman,

presents a will in which the priest names his niece as sole heir, and

proves, moreover, that he had a son by his wife, who died directly

after baptism. Don Fermín's cousin, Juan Antonio, of Labraz, brings

suit against Bandon, and the suit lasts for nearly twenty years. Juan

Antonio dies and the Irishman is thus enabled to collect part of the

inheritance.

"Juan Antonio's other daughter marries a cousin of hers, a merchant of

Haro, and has three children, two boys and a girl. The girl enters a

nunnery, one of the boys dies in the Carlist war and the other goes

into business and leaves for America.

"This fellow, Juan Manuel Núnez makes a regular fortune and marries a

native and has two daughters: Augusta and Margarita. Augusta, the

younger, marries my father, Ricardo Hasting, who was a madcap and ran

away from his home; Margarita weds a soldier, colonel Buenavida. They

all come to Spain with plenty of money; my father plunges into

disastrous business schemes, and after he has been utterly ruined he

learns, I don't know how, that the fortune of the priest Núñez de

Latona is at the disposition of the heirs. He goes to England, enters

his claim; they demand his documents, he brings forth the baptismal

records of his wife's ancestors and it is found that the priest Don

Fermin's birth registration is missing. Soon my father gives up

writing and years and years go by; at the end of more than ten we

receive a letter telling us that he has died in Australia.

"Margarita, my mother's sister, is left a widow with a daughter,

marries a second time, and her husband turns out a rascal of the worst

brand who leaves her without a céntimo. Rosa, the daughter of the

first marriage, unable to put up with her step-father, elopes with an

actor and nothing more is heard of her.

"If," added Roberto, "you have followed my explanations, you will have

seen that the only remaining relatives of Don Fermín Núñez de Latona

are my sisters and I, because Margarita's daughter Rosa Núñez has

died.

"Now, the point is to prove this relationship, and this relationship

is proved, for I have the baptismal documents that show our descent in

a direct line from Juan Antonio, Fermín's brother. But why doesn't

Fermín Núñez de Latona's name appear in the parish register of Labraz?

That's what's been bothering me, and I've settled it. That Irishman

Bandon, when his rival Juan Antonio died, sent to Spain an agent named

Shaphter, who caused the disappearance of Don Fermín's baptismal

certificate. How? I don't know as yet. In the meantime, I'm continuing

the claim in London, just to keep the case in the courts, and the

Hastings are the ones who are pushing the suit."

"And how much does this fortune amount to?" asked Manuel.

"Reckoning principal and interest, to a million pounds sterling."

"And is that much?"

"Without allowing for exchange, about one hundred million reales;

allowing for exchange, a hundred and thirty."

Manuel burst out laughing.

"And all for you alone?"

"For me and my sisters. You can just imagine, when I collect that sum,

what these cheap carriages and such things will mean to me. Nothing at

all."

"And now, in the meantime, you haven't a peseta."

"Such is life. You've got to wait. It can't be helped. Now, when

nobody believes me, I enjoy the recognition of my own strength more

than I'll enjoy my subsequent triumph. I have reared a whole mountain;

a dense mist prevents people from seeing it; tomorrow the clouds will

scatter and the mountain will stand forth with snow-crowned crests."

Manuel thought it silly to be talking of all this opulence when

neither of them had enough to buy a meal. Pretending important

matters, he took leave of Roberto.

CHAPTER IV,

Dolores the Scandalous--Pastiri's Tricks--Tender Savagery--A

Modest Out-of-the-way Robbery.

After a week spent in sleeping in the open Manuel decided one day to

rejoin Vidal and Bizco and to take up their evil ways.

He inquired after his friends in the taverns on the Andalucía

cart-road, at La Llorosa, Las Injurias, and a chum of El Bizco, who

was named El Chingui, told him that El Bizco was staying at Las

Cambroneras, at the home of a well-known thieving strumpet called

Dolores the Scandalous.

Manuel went off to Las Cambroneras, asked for Dolores and was shown a

door in a patio inhabited by gipsies.

Manuel knocked, but Dolores refused to open the door; finally, after

hearing the boy's explanations, she allowed him to come in.

Dolores' home consisted of a room about three metres square; in the

rear could be made out a bed where El Bizco was sleeping in his

clothes, beside a sort of vaulted niche with a chimney and a tiny

fireplace. The furnishings of the room consisted of a table, a trunk,

a white shelf containing plates and earthenware pots, and a pine

wall-bracket that supported an oil-lamp.

Dolores was a woman of about fifty; she wore black clothes, a red

kerchief knotted around her forehead like a bandage and another of

some indistinct colour over her head.

Manuel called to El Bizco and, when the cross-eyed fellow awoke, asked

after Vidal.

"He'll be here right away," said El Bizco, and then, turning upon the

old lady, he growled: "Hey, you, fetch my boots."

Dolores was slow in executing his orders, whereupon El Bizco, wishing

to show off his domination over the woman, struck her.

The woman did not even mumble; Manuel looked coldly at El Bizco, in

disgust; the other averted his gaze.

"Want a bite?" asked El Bizco of Manuel when he had got out of bed.

"If you have anything good...."

Dolores drew from the fire a pan filled with meat and potatoes.

"You take good care of yourselves," murmured Manuel, whom hunger had

made profoundly cynical.

"They trust us at the butcher's," said Dolores, to explain the

abundance of meat.

"If you and I didn't work hard hereabouts," interjected El Bizco,

"much we'd be eating."

The woman smiled modestly. They finished their lunch and Dolores

produced a bottle of wine.

"This woman," declared El Bizco, "just as you behold her there, beats

them all. Show him what we have in the corner."

"Not now, man."

"And why not?"

"Suppose some one should come?"

"I'll bolt the door."

"All right."

El Bizco bolted the door. Dolores pushed the table to the middle of

the room, went over to the wall, pulled away a scrap of kalsomined

canvas about a yard square, and revealed a gap crammed with ribbons,

cords, lace edging and other objects of passementerie.

"How's that?" said El Bizco. "And it's all of her own collecting."

"You must have quite a bit of money there."

"Yes. It's worth quite a bit," agreed Dolores. Then she let the strip

of canvas fall into place against the excavation in the wall, fastened

it and drew up the bed before it. El Bizco unbolted the door. In a few

moments there was a knock.

"That must be Vidal," said El Bizco, adding in a low voice, as he

turned to Manuel, "See here, not a word to him."

Vidal strutted in with his carefree air, expressed his pleasure at

Manuel's coming, and the three left for the street.

"Are you going to be around here?" asked the old woman.

"Yes."

"Don't come late, then, eh?" added Dolores, addressing Bizco.

The cross-eyed bully did not deign to make any reply.

The three chums went to the square that faces Toledo bridge; near by,

at a stand owned by Garatusa, a penitentiary graduate who ran a

"fence" for thieves and didn't lose any money at it, they had a drink

and then, walking along Ocho Hilos Avenue they came to the Ronda de

Toledo.

The vicinity of El Rastro was thronged with Sunday crowds.

Along the wall of Las Grandiosas Américas, in the space between the

Slaughter-house and the Veterninary School, a long row of itinerant

hawkers had set up their stands.

Some, garbed like beggars, stood dozing motionless against the wall,

indifferently contemplating their wares: old pictures, new

chromographs, books; useless, damaged, filthy articles which they felt

sure none of the public would purchase. Others were gesticulating and

arguing with their customers; several repulsive, grimy old women with

huge straw hats on their heads, dirty hands, arms akimbo and

indecencies quivering upon their lips, were chattering away like

magpies.

The gipsy women in their motley garments were combing their little

brunettes and their black-skinned, large-eyed _churumbeles_ in

the sun; a knot of vagrants was carrying on a serious discussion;

mendicants wrapped in rags, maimed, crippled, were shouting, singing,

wailing, and the Sunday throng, in search of bargains, scurried back

and forth, stopping now and then to question, to pry, while folks

passed by with faces congested by the heat of the sun,--a spring sun

that blinded one with the chalky reflection of the dusty soil,

glittering and sparkling with a thousand glints in the broken mirrors

and the metal utensils displayed in heaps upon the ground. To add to

this deafening roar of cries and shouts, two organs pierced the air

with the merry wheeze of their blending, interweaving tones.

Manuel, El Bizco and Vidal strolled to the head of El Rastro and

turned down again. At the door of Las Américas they met Pastiri

sniffing around the place.

Catching sight of Manuel and the other two, the fellow of the three

cards approached and said:

"Shall we have some wine?"

"Sure."

They entered one of the taverns of the Ronda. Pastiri was alone that

day, as his companion had gone off to the Escorial; since he had no

one to act as his confederate in the game he hadn't made a céntimo.

Now, if they would consent to act as bait to induce the inquisitive

onlookers to play, he'd give them a share of the profits.

"Ask him how much?" said El Bizco to Vidal.

"Don't be an idiot."

Pastiri explained the matter for El Bizco's benefit; the confederates

were to place bets and then proclaim in a loud voice that they had

won. Then he'd see to making the spectators eager to play.

"All right. We know what to do," said Vidal.

"You agree to the scheme?"

"Yes, man."

Pastiri gave them three pesetas apiece and the four left the tavern,

crossed the Ronda and made their way in the crowds of El Rastro.

Every once in a while Pastiri would stop, thinking he had caught sight

of a prospective dupe; El Bizco or Manuel would place a bet; but the

fellow who looked like an easy victim would smile as he saw them lay

the snare or else pass on indifferently, quite accustomed to this type

of trickery.

Soon Pastiri noticed a group of rustics with their broad hats and

short trousers.

"_Aluspiar_, here come a few birds and we may work them for

something," he said, and he planted himself and his card table

directly in the path of the country-folk and began his game.

El Bizco bet two pesetas and won; Manuel followed suit with the same

results.

"This fellow is a cinch," said Vidal in a loud voice, turning to the

group of hayseeds. "Have you seen all the money he's losing? That

soldier there just won six duros."

Hearing this, one of the rustics drew near, and seeing that Manuel and

El Bizco were winning, he wagered a peseta and won. The fellow's

companions advised him to retire with his winnings; but his greed got

the best of him and he returned to bet two pesetas, losing them.

Then Vidal bet a duro.

"Here's a five-peseta piece," he declared, ringing the coin upon the

ground, He picked out the right card and won.

Pastiri made a gesture of anoyance.

The rustic wagered another duro and lost; he glanced anxiously at his

fellow countrymen, extracted another duro and lost that, too.

At this moment a guard happened along and the group broke up; noting

Pastiri's movement of flight, the hayseed tried to seize him, grabbing

at his coat, but the trickster gave a rude tug and escaped in the

crowd.

Manuel, Vidal and El Bizco made their way across the Plaza del Rastro

to Embajadores Street.

El Bizco had four pesetas, Manuel six and Vidal fourteen.

"And what are we going to return to that guy?" asked El Bizco.

"Return? Nothing," answered Vidal.

"Why, that would be robbing him of his whole year's profits," objected

Manuel.

"What of it? Deuce take him," retorted Vidal. "We came darn near

getting caught ourselves, with nothing for our trouble."

It was lunch hour and they wondered where to go; Vidal settled it,

saying that as long as they were on Embajadores Street, the Society of

the Three, in plenary session, might as well continue on the way down

till they got to La Manigua restaurant.

The suggestion was accepted and the associates spent that Sunday

afternoon in royal fashion; Vidal was splendid, spending Pastiri's

money right and left, inviting several girls to their table and

dancing all the _chulo_ steps.

To Manuel this beginning of his free life seemed not at all bad. At

night the three comrades, somewhat the worse for wine, ambled up

Embajadores Street, turning into the surrounding road.