It would have been a misfortune, indeed, to have journeyed through Andalusia without making the acquaintance of Don José. He burst in upon us a moment later; a very hippopotamus of a man, dressed in baggy trousers, slouch hat, and alpaca jacket. Unfortunately his arrival coincided with my announcement that I was walking to Córdoba--the whole itinerary would have been too strong meat for Latin consumption--and his native geniality was for a time overshadowed by astonishment at my extraordinary means of locomotion. I had all but finished the meal set for me in an adjoining room when the pair entered and sat down beside me.
"Señor," began the manager, in what was meant to be a whisper, "you cannot walk to Córdoba. It is forty leagues."
"How much money have you?" put in the Frenchman.
"Er--I have something over seven pesetas," I answered.
"Bueno! Bonísima!" cried the alcalde, patting me on the shoulder. "Don Victor and I will add the rest and I shall go with you to the station to buy the ticket--in the morning."
Great, I reflected, is the infant mortality among generous resolutions in the gray of dawn, and accordingly held my peace.
Having settled my future to his own satisfaction, Don José linked an arm in one of mine and plunged out into the night.
"Your bed is waiting for you in your own house," he said with Spanish formality. "You have only to say the word."
The first syllable of which I had not found time to say before we marched full front into San Pablo's barrack-like café. A roar of greeting sounded through the dense cloud of cigarette smoke: "Buenas tardes! Don José!"
"Buenas, amigos! Que le gusta!" returned my companion, and pushing toward a table with two vacant chairs he continued without a break, "Un ponche, Don Gregario! And you, señor? Anything you may choose, though there is nothing equal to ponche. Verdad, Rufo?" Then as I opened my lips to express a preference, "Sí! sí! Don Gregario! Dos ponches!"