“That’s what we are,” replied Quentin.
The poet could not have been pleased by this turn of the conversation, for without saying another word, he addressed the charcoal-burner:
“Hello, Manano!” he cried. “It looks as if we’d caught it now, eh? Well, look out they don’t take you to La Higuerilla!”
“Me!—to La Higuerilla?” exclaimed the drunkard; “nobody can do that!”
“Don’t you want to go there any more?”
“No.”
“Why not? You used to be glad to go.”
“Because they used to treat a fellow right; but now, as you’ve said in poetry, they don’t give you anything but water, a blow or two with a stick now and then, and that stuff that smells so bad ... pneumonia.”
The poet smiled at this testimony of his popularity.
El Sardino and El Manano had resumed their same parabolic manner of speech, when there came humming into the tavern a small, straight man with a short, black moustache that looked as if it were painted on his lip, a broad-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes, a huge watch chain across his vest, and a knotted and twisted stick.