“This ‘bird,’” replied the other, “is a hard-headed bull—understand?—The best there is.”
“Well, that’s better.”
Quentin smiled as he gazed at the man who had called him a bird. He was an individual of indefinite age, clean-shaven, a mixture of a barber and a sacristan, with a forehead so low that his hair served him as eyebrows, and with a jaw like a monkey’s.
“And this chap, who is he?” asked Quentin in turn.
“He? He is one of the most shameless fellows in the world. He wanders about these parts to see if they won’t give him a few pennies. Though he is old and musty, you will always find him with sporting women and happy-go-lucky folk. Ask any one in Cordova about Currito Martín, and no matter where you are, they can tell you who he is.”
“Not everywhere, Señor José,” replied Currito, who had listened impassively to the panegyric, gesticulating with a hand whose fingers resembled vine-creepers. “If you should ask the Bishop, he would not know me.”
“Well, I would have taken him for a sacristan,” said Quentin.
“I’m a sacristan of blackbirds and martens, if you must know,” said Currito somewhat piqued. “The only places where I am known are the taverns, the huts in the Calle de la Feria, and the Higuerilla.”
“And that’s enough,” said one of the card-players.
“That’s right.”