"Yes, from Malaga. I can do anything—try me."
"Can you sell bread through the camp? I am a man short, and could take you on, perhaps, until he is better. Come down below, and I will give you a basketful to hawk about."
"I shall have to tell them at the canteen—Mother Charcoal's—that I am going to leave."
"That won't do. You must come at once if you come at all. Which will you do?"
While she still hesitated, a voice from the subterranean regions at the end of the shop fell upon her ear. Her heart gave a great jump at the sound—it was Benito's. "Joe! Joe!" he was crying, in feeble accents.
"It's take it or leave it. There are plenty of your sort about. Well, what do you say?"
"I accept," said Mariquita, eagerly. "When shall I begin work?"
"Now, this minute. Come down and help me to get a batch of bread out of the oven."
They passed down into the cellar by a short ladder, and Mariquita found herself in a dimly-lighted cavernous den, hot and stifling, at one end of which glowed the grate below the oven.
"Joe! Joe!" repeated Benito's voice, and Mariquita, with difficulty, made out his figure lying on a heap of rags in a corner of the cellar.