Carrahola went up to the table at which Quentin, Springer, and Cornejo were sitting, drew up a chair, and sat down without greeting them.
“This is a great night for finding lone jackasses, Carrahola,” said the poet, turning to the little man.
The fellow turned his head as if he had heard the voice from the other side of the room, and paid no attention. Carrahola doubtless considered himself a great bully; he noted the expectancy in the tavern, so he seized Quentin’s glass, held it up to the light, and emptied it with one swallow. Quentin took the glass, and, without saying a word, took careful aim, and tossed it through an open window. Then, clapping his hands, he said to El Pullí who came toward him:
“A glass; and kindly notify this person,” and he pointed to Carrahola, “that he is in the way here.”
“Move on,” said the innkeeper; “this table is occupied.”
Carrahola pretended not to understand; he took a plug of tobacco and a knife from his coat, and began to scrape tobacco; then he suddenly put the instrument upon the table.
“What do you do with that?” inquired Quentin, pointing to the blade with his finger. “Flourish it?”
Carrahola rose tragically from the table, put his knife away slowly, seized his enormous knotted stick, insinuated himself into his broad hat, gave a little pull to the lapels of his coat, and said dryly and contemptuously:
“Some one is talking in here who would not dare to speak thus in the street.”
This said, he spat upon the floor, wiped away the spittle by rubbing it with the sole of his boot, and stood looking over his shoulder.