The printer took out paper and pencil and rapidly made some figures.
“Two hundred dollars,” said he.
“Good,” replied Quentin, and he took some bills from his pocket-book and put them upon the table. “Here are the two hundred dollars. I’ll pay you the forty that I owe you when I can.”
“That’s all right,” said the printer, picking up the money without daring to count it. “Would you like me to give you a receipt?”
“I—What for?”
The printer rose, bowed ceremoniously, and went out.
“How about you, Cornejo?” murmured Quentin. “Do you need some?”
“Throw me ten or twelve dollars.”
“Here are twenty; but you’ve got to get to work. If you don’t, I’ll kick you out.”
“Don’t you worry.” The poet stuck the bill carelessly into his pocket, and began to listen to the conversation of the persons at the next table. One of these was a man with a huge beard whom they called El Sardino; the other was a charcoal-burner with a grimy face called El Manano.