“No. I left them harnessed. When I get back from the theatre, I go through the gate, turn the carriage around in the patio, and leave it in the entryway facing the street,—see? Then I go, open the gate, and I’m off.”
Pacheco conducted the coachman through side streets to El Cuervo’s tavern.
“But where is that tavern, my friend?” asked the little old man.
They went into the tavern.
“Bring me wine—the best you have,” said Pacheco, winking at El Cuervo.
The innkeeper brought a large jar and filled the glasses. The coachman smelled the wine, tasted it slowly, relished it; then he smacked his lips, and emptied the glass in one gulp.
“What wine!” he murmured.
“Don’t you think it’s a little bit strong?”
“Well, that’s a good kind of a fault to have, comrade!”