“Let me see, let me see!” murmured the poor man. “It really does say so!” he exclaimed in amazement, on reading the addition.
“The engraver must have made a mistake,” added his friend, jocosely.
But Don Miguel did not swallow that, and as soon as he reached the house showed the card to Botello, and demanded an explanation of the sorry jest. The big scamp so warmly protested that he was innocent, that he succeeded in diverting Don Miguel’s suspicions toward me.
“Don’t you see,” he said, “Salustio has the very pen and ink with which that was written, in his room now? Don’t trust those quiet people. Oh, these proper fellows!”
In consequence of this Macchiavellian scheme, the good-natured Portuguese singled me out for his jealous suspicion, although I had never meddled with him in my life. But I firmly believe that his blindness was voluntary, because he could not have had the slightest doubt in regard to some other malicious pranks that Botello perpetrated.
One day when he was playing dominoes with his victim, Botello managed to put a paper crown, with donkey’s ears, on the latter’s head, so that the nymph of the ironing-table might be convulsed with laughter, for she was watching the whole performance. Then, one day, he pinned long strips of paper upon his coat-tails, so that when he went out in the street all the street Arabs hooted at him. Nevertheless, the fondness of the Portuguese for Botello never failed. When Botello lacked money to pay for a ball ticket, he would go to Don Miguel and ask for half a dollar, and exhaust all his eloquence in trying to persuade him that he ought to go on a frolic also. When the Portuguese would refuse, making the excuse that he did not want to displease the washerwoman, Botello would retort, calling him a booby. As the Portuguese did not understand that word, and appeared somewhat offended, Botello would make a movement as if to return the half-dollar. “Take it, take it, if you are angry with me,” the sly youth would exclaim. “My personal dignity will not allow me to accept favors from any one who looks at me in that way. You are angry, aren’t you now?”
“I can never be angry with you,” the Portuguese would reply, putting the money into his hand by main force; then turning toward the rest of us who were witnessing this scene, he would say with the most kindly smile I have ever seen on any human countenance: “This rapacious rogue! But he is a great artist.”
Then he would go back to his place at the window, and strum on his guitar.
The reader must acknowledge that there was no opportunity for applying one’s mind to methodical, engrossing, and difficult study in a house where such scenes occurred every moment of the day. The bursts of laughter, alternating with frequent squabbles; the racing up and down the halls; the continual going in and out of lazy fellows who, not knowing how to kill time, endeavor to make the studious ones lose it; the irregularity of our meals; the confidential way we had of living in each other’s rooms; the being up all night, and getting out of bed at midday, did not greatly help a student to win distinction in the School of Engineering. On the other hand, the contagion of joking and mirth could not possibly be withstood at my age.
Other students boarded there; some attending the University, others the School of Mountain Engineering, and others the School of Architecture; but none of them was a prodigy of learning. Perhaps I was ahead of them all in diligent application to my studies; but as my subjects were very difficult, it turned out that I found myself put over to the September examinations that year. Consequently I was obliged to spend my vacation in Madrid, and was unable to enjoy the cool breezes of my home in the province.