“They don’t dare. Don’t you see that I am protecting him?”
The Swiss looked at his friend, whom he admired deep down in his heart, and murmured again and again:
“My, what a faker!”
“It has been my custom to invite him to dine with me in the Café Puzzini and in the Rizzi Tavern,” added Quentin, “and no one has dared to interfere with him.”
Conversing in this manner, they had come out upon Las Tendillas, and were going up the Calle de Gondomar toward the Paseo del Gran Capitán. They walked past San Nicolás de la Villa, and followed the Calle de la Concepción toward the Puerta de Gallegos.
A strong breeze was blowing which made the blinds and windows rattle noisily.
“Where is that tavern?” asked Springer.
“Right here,” answered Quentin. “This is the Calle del Niño Perdido, a sort of cul-de-sac; it is not ours. This other is the Calle de los Ucedas; nor is that the one we are looking for, either.”
They walked on a few paces.
“This is the Calle del Bodegoncillo,” said Quentin, “and here is the tavern.”