Late in the afternoon of the third day, as the three women and myself sat conversing as usual over the brasero, a shabby-looking fellow in an old rusty cloak walked into the room. He came straight up to the place where we were sitting, produced a paper cigar, which he lighted at a coal, and taking a whiff or two, looked at me: “Carracho,” said he, “who is this companion?”
I saw at once that the fellow was no gypsy: the women said nothing, but I could hear the grandmother growling to herself, something after the manner of an old grimalkin when disturbed.
“Carracho,” reiterated the fellow, “how came this companion here?”
“No le penela chi, min chaboró,” said the black Callee to me, in an undertone; “sin un balichó de los chineles;” [126] then looking up to the interrogator, she said aloud, “He is one of our people from Portugal, come on the smuggling lay, and to see his poor sisters here.”
“Then let him give me some tobacco,” said the fellow; “I suppose he has brought some with him.”
“He has no tobacco,” said the black Callee; “he has nothing but old iron. This cigar is the only tobacco there is in the house; take it, smoke it, and go away!”
Thereupon she produced a cigar from out her shoe, which she presented to the alguazil.
“This will not do,” said the fellow, taking the cigar; “I must have something better. It is now three months since I received anything from you. The last present was a handkerchief, which was good for nothing; therefore hand me over something worth taking, or I will carry you all to the Carcel.”
“The Busnó will take us to prison,” said the black Callee; “ha! ha! ha!”
“The Chinel will take us to prison,” giggled the young girl; “he! he! he!”