The two rose and approached the group of gamblers. One of these interrupted his game.
"Please make way?" Leandro said to him, with marked impertinence.
The man drew in his chair sourly. There was nothing remarkable about the jars; they were large, embedded in the wall, painted with red-lead; each of them bore a sign denoting the class of wine inside, and had a spigot.
"What's so wonderful about this, I'd like to know?" asked Manuel.
Leandro smiled; they returned as they had come, disturbing the player once more and resuming their seats at the table.
Roberto and Fanny conversed in English.
"That fellow we made get up," said Leandro, "is the bully of this place."
"What's his name?" asked Fanny.
"El Valencia."
The man they were speaking about, hearing his sobriquet mentioned, turned around and eyed Leandro; for a moment their glances crossed defiantly; Valencia turned his eyes away and continued playing. He was a strong man, about forty, with high cheek bones, reddish skin and a disagreeably sarcastic expression. Every once in a while he would cast a severe look at the group formed by Fanny, Roberto and the other two.