There were days when the only thing he ate was the cabbage stalks that he picked up in the marketplaces; other days, on the contrary, he treated himself to seventy-eight céntimo banquets in the chop-houses.
October came around and Manuel began to feel cold at night; his eldest sister gave him a frayed overcoat and a muffler; but despite these, whenever he could find no roof to shelter him he almost froze to death in the street.
One night in the early part of November Manuel stumbled against El Bizco at the entrance to a café on La Cabecera del Rastro; the cross-eyed ragamuffin was bent over, almost naked, his arms crossed against his chest, barefoot; he presented a painful picture of poverty and cold.
Dolores La Escandalosa had left him for another.
"Where can we go to sleep?" Manuel asked him.
"Let's try the caves of La Montaña," answered El Bizco.
"But can we get in there?"
"Yes, if there aren't too many."
"Come on, then."
The two crossed through the Puerta de Moros and Mancebos Street to the Viaduct; they traversed the Plaza de Oriente, following along Bailen and Ferraz Streets, and, as they reached the Montaña del Príncipe Pío, ascended a narrow path bordered by recently planted pines.