Currito peevishly fell silent, and Pacheco presented Quentin to the bushy-haired man.
“This gentleman,” and he indicated Quentin, “is a brave chap whom I have had the pleasure of meeting this evening by mistake. This man,” and he nodded to the old man with the long beard, “is Don Gil Sabadía, the only person in Cordova who knows the history of every street, alley, and by-way in the city.”
“Not as much as that, man, not as much as that,” said Don Gil with a smile.
“If there is anything you don’t know,” Pacheco went on, “nobody in Cordova knows it. Well, if you and the girls would like to drink a bottle of the best Montilla, I’ll treat.”
“Accepted.”
“Cuervo!” shouted Pacheco, stepping outside the door.
The innkeeper appeared; a man of some fifty years, stoop-shouldered, ill-shaven, with hatchet-shaped side whiskers, and a red sash about his waist.
“What does Señor José wish?” he inquired.
“Bring a few bottles of your best.”
While they were waiting for the wine, the ill-tempered girl and Currito resumed their quarrel.