"You will indeed be better there," said our friend. "Two beds are better than one."
The cord porter was commissioned to fetch our luggage and we went off with the other man. We had invited him to take coffee with us. He preceded us to a small buvette, and the waiter showed us into a room partitioned into private boxes by means of canvas screens.
"Here one is at one's ease," said our acquaintance. We told him that we were painters.
"I am a zapatero,"[30] he said. "I have been here some weeks looking for work. My proper town is Aguilas, though I was born here. But Aguilas is not large. There was another zapatero in the town. The people all took their work to him. They said, 'He is a fool, but you are clever. Therefore he can make a living only where he is known, and where folks sympathize with him; while you can easily make good elsewhere.' So I had to come away. But times are bad. They say that there are too many zapateros in Lorca already.
"Times are so bad in Lorca," he went on, "that I don't expect you will do the business here that you hope. Now, if you are the painters you ought to be, I have a proposal to make. You come with me to some towns I know of down the coast. You will put up your easel in the main street, and will paint, and I will sell lottery tickets at three goes for the real. We will do a splendid business. I can assure you that."
Had the offer come at another moment we would have jumped at the chance of the fun. But we had a London Exhibition hanging over our heads. We dared not waste the time. This we explained to the zapatero, adding also our regrets and how well the idea would have gone in the book we were projecting. His expression altered at once.
"Books?" said he. "You are book people?"
"Yes."
"But," he persisted, "you don't mean to say that you are that kind of persons? Not with those books that Englishmen come selling. You are book people"—his voice rose with indignation—"you have to do with those Bibles!"