“These drivers drip oratory.”
While the shabby coach was going along the highway which encircles Castro hill, to the sound of the bells and the cracking of the whip, it was possible to remain seated in the vehicle with comparative ease; but on reaching the town’s first steep, crooked, rough-cobbled street, the swinging and tossing were such that the travellers kept falling one upon another.
The first street kept getting rapidly narrower, and as it grew narrower, the crags in its paving were sharper and more prominent. At the highest part of the street, in the middle, stood a two-wheeled cart blocking the way. The coachman got down, from his seat and started a long discussion with the carter, as to who was under obligations to make way.
“What idiots!” exclaimed Cæsar, irritated; then, calmer, he murmured, addressing Alzugaray, “The truth is, these people don’t care about doing anything but talk.”
As the discussion between the coachman and the carter gave signs of never ending, Cæsar said:
“Come along,” and then, addressing the man with the bag, he asked him, “Is it far from here to the inn?”
“No; it is right here, in the house where the café is.” THE INN
Sure enough, the inn was only a step away. They went into the damp, dark entrance, up the crooked stairs, and down the corridor to the kitchen.
“Good morning, good morning!” they shouted.
Nobody appeared.