“What are you doing?” asked Manuel.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?”
“Yes. Did the old cripple discharge you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you thinking of anything?”
“Pse!... There’s nothing doing, anyway. Come on, let’s have a glass or two.”
“No, not for me.”
“You’ll do as you’re told. I’ve got only forty céntimos, which is as good as nothing. Hey, waiter! A couple of glasses.”
They drank and then walked off in the direction of the Santa Casilda hostelry. It was still snowing. Jesús, his cheeks hectic, coughed desperately.
“I warn you: Salvadora, that little kid, will raise holy hell,” said Manuel. “Such a temper she has!”