“Anything rather than keep this up!”
“If you were only alone, as I am!”
“La Fea and La Salvadora are on the way to taking care of themselves,” said Jesús. In the spring, he added, he and Manuel ought to undertake a hike over the road, working a bit here and there and always seeing new faces and new places. He knew that the Department of the Interior helped out such travellers with a sum that consisted of two reales for every town through which they passed. If they could get such aid they ought to be off at once.
They were crossing the Plaza del Progreso, engrossed in this discussion, when a band of strolling students passed by playing a lilting march. It was beginning to snow; it was very cold.
“Shall we have a good supper tonight? What do you say?” asked Jesús.
“They’ll be waiting for us at home.”
“Let ’em wait! A day is a day. Are we going to stick there all our lives long, skimping, to save up a few nasty coins? Save! For what?”
They retraced their steps, hurrying along through the Calle de Barrionuevo, and on the Calle de la Paz they entered a tavern and ordered supper. As they ate they discussed their projected journey with enthusiasm. They drank several toasts to it. Manuel had never been so merry. They were fully agreed, ready to explore the North Pole.
“Now we ought to go to the dance at the Frontón,” mumbled Jesús at dessert in a stuttering voice. “We’ll pick up a couple of skirts and whoop ’er up for a gay old time! As for the printing-shop,—devil take it.”
“That’s what,” repeated Manuel. “To the dance! And let the lame boss go to hell. Get a move on, you!”