“Bueno,” the man said, after a pause. “Esta bueno.”
“I guess it is bueno,” the train-hand muttered. “It’s pretty dam’ bueno, if you ask me.”
He went on working. Having cleared away two tiles, his task was easier, because he could get at the pegs in the heads of the course below them. He cracked each tile at the peg by a smart tap, then shook it clear and piled it to one side. Presently he wrenched a couple of laths away, beat violently downwards with them and knocked a foot of the ceiling into Sard’s cell. He had begun his work with some precautions against noise: he now took none. A second soldier came yawning out of the barton. He stood staring with his mate at the breaking of the tiles.
“What is he doing?” he asked.
“Mending the roof.”
“Verdad?”
“Verdad.”
“See here now,” the train-hand said to Sard, “can you ketch aholt of these laths and give a swig down on them?”
“Yes.”
“He is talking to the prisoner,” the second soldier said to his comrade. “He ought not to talk to the prisoner.”