“Here is mine.”
“Well, you’re a brave chap,” exclaimed Pacheco. “That’s the way I like to have a fellow act. Listen: any time you need me, you will find me here, in El Cuervo’s tavern. Now let’s see what these lads are talking about.”
Pacheco got up, and followed by Quentin, went over to the card-players’ table.
“Hello, Pajarote!” said Pacheco to the banker.
“Hello, Señor José! Were you here? I didn’t see you.”
“What’s doing in Seville and the low country?”
“Nothing.... It’s pretty slow. Everything is closed by hunger and poverty, and here I am with these thieves who would even steal a man’s breath.... Why, I’m beginning to lose faith even in San Rafael himself.”
“Now you’ve spoiled my luck, comrade,” said one of the players, throwing down his cards angrily. “What business did you have ringing in that angel? Look here, I’m not going to play any more.”
Pajarote smiled. He was a scoundrel and a card sharp, and he always took delight in pretending to be unlucky while he was cleaning his friends of their money. He dealt the cards.
“I’ll bet,” said a man with one eye higher than the other whom they called Charpaneja, in the thin voice of a hunchback.