"It is I, Miguelito; it is I. I am perfectly furious! Can't you see it by my face? I must give you a regular scolding. Who would have thought that you, degenerate scion, should be tramping through this blessed world of ours, hunting for a situation, and never have remembered an old friend like me! I know very well that I am a poor old man who is not good for anything."
"That is not so, Don Facundo; that is not so.... It is because our professions are so unlike.... Besides, I was afraid that mamma would find out...."
He could not give an excuse. The truth was that he had forgotten the saintly old man.
"No use, my dear fellow, no use; you were ungrateful.... You forget those who love you, and go and ask favors of men who did not even know your father."
"You are right...."
"Well, then, I have scolded you sufficiently. Let us come to what interests us more closely at present. I have come to offer you a place in the bank of Andalucía. For more than a month I have been begging it for you. At last, this very day, they put it at my disposition. Salary, sixty duros a month. Will you take it?"
Miguel's only answer was to squeeze his hand violently. After a moment he exclaimed, with his eyes full of tears:—
"If you only knew, Don Facundo, how opportunely this comes!"
"Haven't you any money?"
"Not a peseta!"