“Ah! No time to waste! Then clear out, my fine fellow. I don’t need you here at all. Let the kid remain. You’re in the way here.”
“Thanks. You stay here,” said Roberto to Manuel. “They’ll tell you what you have to do.”
Manuel stood perplexed; he saw his friend disappear, looked around him in every direction, and seeing that nobody paid any attention to him, he walked over to the stairway and descended two steps.
“Eh! Where are you going?” shouted the lame man after him. “Do you want to learn the trade or not? What do you call this?”
Manuel was more confused than ever.
“Hey, you, Yaco,” shouted the cripple, turning to one of the men at the cases. “Teach this kid the case.”
The man he had called,—a puny fellow, very swarthy, with a black beard,—was working away with astonishing rapidity. He cast an indifferent glance in Manuel’s direction and resumed his work.
The youngster stood there motionless. Seeing him thus, the other typesetter, a blond young fellow with a sickly look, turned to his bearded companion jestingly and said to him in a queer sing-song:
“Ah, Yaco! Why don’t you teach the boy the position of the letters?”
“Teach him yourself,” retorted he whom they called Yaco.