Our driver was not communicative. Apparently all his energy had spent itself at the station in claiming our patronage. He now even seemed unhappy, and in spite of the abominable drive he was giving us, we ventured to ask him if the world went well with him.
"I can't complain of the world, señor," he returned, in melancholy tones. "I have food enough to eat, but alas cannot eat it. I suffer from frightful toothache. At the last fair I mounted the dentist's waggon; boom went the drum, crash went the trumpets—I thought my head was off. He had pulled out the only sound tooth I possessed. 'Let me try again,' said he. 'No, thank you,' I answered. 'You have given me enough for one day, and if you expect any other payment than my sound tooth you will be disappointed.' Unfortunately, señor, he had more than the tooth, for he had carried away a bit of my jaw with it. Since then I have no comfort in life. The next time the fair comes round I suppose he will have to try again. The priests tell us a good deal about the torments of purgatory, but they can be nothing compared with this toothache. After this I shall expect to go straight to paradise when I die—priest or no priest."
The silence of the unhappy driver was more than accounted for, and we gave him our sympathy.
"Thank you, señor," he answered. "It is very good of you. But," comically, "my tooth still aches."
We had reached the outskirts of the little town and dismissed the conveyance, of which we had had more than enough. It rattled through the streets and we followed at leisure. The men at the wine-press were just giving up work. Inside, in large rooms, they showed us wide tubs full of rich red juice, waiting to be made into wine.
"You have enough here for the whole neighbourhood," we remarked.
"It is all ordered, señor, and as much again if we can get it. We are famed for our wine. May we offer you a really good specimen bottle, just to show you its excellence? It would be a most friendly act on your part—and a little return for your splendid tobacco and cigars."
"By all means," cried H. C., before we had time to accept or decline. "We are all as thirsty as fishes—and as hungry as hunters."
"It is last year's wine," said our cellarman, returning with a bottle and drawing the cork. Then he hospitably filled tumblers and with a broad smile upon his face waited our approval. We gave it without reserve. It was excellent.
"And as pure as when it was still in the grape," said the man. "Take my word for it, señor, you won't get such stuff as this in Madrid or Barcelona. It goes through your veins and exhilarates you, and if you drank three bottles of it you might feel lively, but you would have no headache."