“Well, what do they want? To have us saving up money all our lives? I’m glad that the kid is in the house, for she can take care of La Fea, who is the unhappier of the two.... And you,—how much have you got left from your pay?” asked the compositor of Manuel.
“Me? Not even a button.”
At this reply Jesús was so deeply moved that he seized his companion by the arm and assured him in the most ardent outbursts that he esteemed him and loved him as a brother.
“And may I be damned!” he concluded, “if I’m not willing to do anything under the sun for you. For this telling me that you haven’t even a button is worth more to me than all the deeds of the hero of Cascorro.”[4]
Manuel, affected by these words, asseverated in a husky voice that though he was a vagabond and a good-for-nothing, he was ready to perform any sacrifice for so staunch a friend.
In order to celebrate such tender protestations of amity, they both lurched into a tavern on the Calle de Barrionuevo and gulped down a few more glasses of whisky.
They reached the Santa Casilda hostelry dead drunk. The house janitor came out to meet them, demanding of each the rent for his room. Jesús answered jestingly that they gave him no money because they had none to give. He rejoined that either they paid or they could take to the street, whereupon the compositor dared him to throw them out.
The man’s wife, who might have been a soldier, took them both by the shoulder and shoved them into the street.
“Lord, oh Lord! The weaker sex!” mumbled Jesús. “That’s what they call the weaker sex!... And they can throw a fellow out of the house.... And where’s a guy going to get two duros?... Well, what do you say to that, Manuel? Hey? The weaker sex.... How do you like such a figurative manner of speech?... It’s we who are the weaker, and they simply abuse their strength.”
They began to stagger along the street; neither felt the cold.