"The engine is a bad one. It won't start. They are sending to Murcia for another."
He went away once more. A luggage train rumbled into the station. This brought our boy back with a rush.
"Here," he cried, "spread out, spread out as much as you can. It's an agricultural train, and we shall be swamped with labourers."
He pushed his boxes and packages more widely over the seats. His prediction was justified. A horde of unshaven men, carrying sacks and implements clambered up the side of the train and peered with round eyes into the windows.
"No room here, no room here," cried the youth.
"But there is nobody in the carriage," protested one of the agriculturists.
"They are in the fonda," said the youth.
In spite of the energies of officials accommodation could not be found. Soon the agriculturists were wailing their protests, wandering forlornly up and down. At last the heart of our youth was softened.
"Here," he cried. "Room for two. Got to let some in," he added to us in an undertone, "or they'll push the lot in on us."
The two who accepted the invitation were very subservient, almost cringing, and we stowed their sacks and other luggage between our legs. They talked together in hoarse whispers. In time most of the peasants were placed, but one man who carried an enormous sack of potatoes seemed to be unplaceable, for he refused to be parted from his sack. The officials said the sack was too big for carriage traffic: it ought to go in the van. But no protestation moved the owner. He was determined that, come what might, he and his sack would never part. Eventually, as usually happens in Spain, he was allowed to do as he liked. He and his sack were crushed into another carriage.