The Indian fumbles his cap, shuffles his feet, and changes his coca cud from one bulging cheek to the other before he can answer. Then huskily:
“I started, Señor, but my woman overtook me an hour afterward and said that one of the ewes had dropped a lamb and needed care.”
“But your woman could have tended it!”
“No, Señor, she is sick.”
“How, then, could she have overtaken you?” he is asked.
“She ran only a little way and then shouted to me.”
“And what about the rest of the month?” persists the contador.
“The other lambs came, Señor, and I should have lost them all if I had left.”
The contador seems at the end of his complaint. The Indian promises to work overtime. His difficulties seem at an end, but the superintendent looks at his old record.
“He always makes the same excuse. Last year he was three weeks late.”