When Springer caught sight of this ludicrous individual, he smiled mockingly, and the poet said:
“Here’s Carrahola.”
“What a funny chap!”
“He’s a bully,” replied Cornejo.
“Bah!” exclaimed Quentin, “he’s a poor fellow, who because he is so small, has the fad of carrying everything extra large: his stick, his sombrero, his cigar-case.”
And indeed, as if to demonstrate this, Carrahola pulled a silver watch, as white and as large as a stew-pan, from his vest pocket, and after ascertaining the time, asked the landlord:
“Has Señor José come yet?”
“No, Señor.”
“But is he coming?”
“I can’t tell you; I think so.”