Don Ramon was not long in coming out of his sleeping-room. In a little while he showed his jovial face at the door of the audience chamber.
He was a person of portly and robust figure; and it was easily seen that one leg of his ample pantaloons would have been sufficient to have made a pair for the thin limbs and meagre body of the escribano.
“Por Dios! Señor alcalde,” said the clerk, after having exchanged with his superior a profusion of matinal salutations, “what a splendid pair of pantaloons you have on!”
From the alcalde’s answer, it was evident that this was not the first time that Cagatinta had made the remark.
“Ah! Gregorio, amigo!” replied he, in a tone of good-humour, “you are growing tiresome with your repetitions. Patience, patience, señor escribano! you know that for the services you are to render me—I say nothing of those already rendered—I have promised you my liver-coloured breeches, which have been only a very little used: you have only to gain them.”
“But what services are to gain them, señor alcalde?” inquired the clerk, in a despairing tone.
“Eh—Dios!—who knows what—patience, amigo! Something may turn up all at once, that will give you that advantage over me. But come! let us to business—make out the deed of appropriation of the boat of that bad pay, Vicente Perez, who under pretence that he has six brats to feed, can’t reimburse me the twenty dollars I have advanced him.”
Cagatinta drew out from his little portfolio a sheet of stamped paper, and sitting down by the table proceeded to execute the order of the magistrate. He was interrupted by a hurried knocking at the outer door—which had been closed to prevent intrusion.
“Who dare knock in that fashion?” sharply inquired the alcalde.
“Ave Maria purisima!” cried a voice from without.