“No,” answered the older, “we should all die: mother of grief and we of hunger.”
Crispin remained silent for a moment, then asked, “How much will you get this month?”
“Two pesos. They’re fined me twice.”
“Then pay what they say I’ve stolen, so that they won’t call us thieves. Pay it, brother!”
“Are you crazy, Crispin? Mother wouldn’t have anything to eat. The senior sacristan says that you’ve stolen two gold pieces, and they’re worth thirty-two pesos.”
The little one counted on his fingers up to thirty-two. “Six hands and two fingers over and each finger a peso!” he murmured thoughtfully. “And each peso, how many cuartos?”
“A hundred and sixty.”
“A hundred and sixty cuartos? A hundred and sixty times a cuarto? Goodness! And how many are a hundred and sixty?”
“Thirty-two hands,” answered the older.
Crispin looked hard at his little hands. “Thirty-two hands,” he repeated, “six hands and two fingers over and each finger thirty-two hands and each finger a cuarto—goodness, what a lot of cuartos! I could hardly count them in three days; and with them could be bought shoes for our feet, a hat for my head when the sun shines hot, a big umbrella for the rain, and food, and clothes for you and mother, and—” He became silent and thoughtful again.