WE got to Madrid at ten o’clock in the morning, and went lovingly together by consent to the house where Don Toribio’s friends lived. A very old woman miserably clad opened the door; he inquired for his friends, and she answered, they were gone out a-seeking. We continued by ourselves until noon, diverting the time, he encouraging me to follow the sponging course of life, and I listening carefully to his advice. Half an hour after twelve in came a scarecrow, clad in black baize down to his heels, more threadbare than his conscience. They talked to one another in the thieves’ cant, the result whereof was his embracing me and offering his service. We discoursed awhile, and then he pulled out a
