“Meanwhile,” Martin said, “I will with this coat and this cap to Eustaphia; madre de las putas that she is, even she will assuredly give me one twenty-five for them.”
“They are old,” a soldier objected. “She will not give one twenty-five, but one five, or one ten, not a Portuguese milrei more.”
“One five or one ten. They are of European weaving and will last for many lives. But to market.”
As the soldier passed Sard’s door, to market the coat and cap, he called out, with a fair imitation of Sard’s voice and accent:
“Take then the coat and cap. You had better take the cap as well.”
As a blow, which would have been pleasanter than an answer, was impossible, Sard kept silent, though his thoughts were bitter. In about ten minutes, Martin returned triumphantly. He passed close to the cell-door, so that Sard not only heard him but smelt the fragrant reek of the hot tamales and annis brandy, which he had bought with the spoils.
“See,” he said, “she being glad with brandy gave me one-forty.”
“One-forty; is it possible?”
“Let us, then, into our room, away from corporal and Little Twig-Legs.”
“Stay yet,” one soldier said. “Shall we not give a tamale and a tot of brandy to this Englishman?”