Crispin regarded his little paws.
“Thirty-two hands,” he said, “and each finger a cuarto! O mama! how many cuartos! and with them one could buy shoes, and a hat for the sun, and an umbrella for the rain, and clothes for mama.”
Crispin became pensive.
“What I’m afraid of is that mama will be angry with you when she hears about it.”
“You think so?” said Crispin, surprised. “But I’ve never had a cuarto except the one they gave me at Easter. Mama won’t believe I stole; she won’t believe it!”
“But if the curate says so——”
Crispin began to cry, and said through his sobs:
“Then go alone, I won’t go. Tell mama I’m sick.”
“Crispin, don’t cry,” said his brother. “If mama seems to believe what they say, you’ll tell her that the sacristan lies, that the curate believes him, that they say we are thieves because our father——”