He went out to the Ronda. The snow had ceased. Several gamins were amusing themselves by throwing snowballs at one another. He went up the Calle del Águila; the cobbler’s was closed. It then occurred to Manuel to hunt out Jacob; he turned toward the Viaduct and was walking along absent-mindedly when he felt some one grab him by the shoulders and cry:
“Stay thy hand, Abraham. Where are you bound?”
It was the Snake-Man, the illustrious Don Alonso.
Manuel told him what straits he and Jesús were in.
“Don’t give up; better times are coming,” mumbled the Snake-Man. “Have you any place to go to?”
“A shed.”
“Good. Let’s go there. I’ve got a peseta. That’s enough to get the three of us a bite.”
They went into a chop house on the Calle del Águila where, for two reales, they received a pot of stew; they bought bread and then the pair made quickly for the shed. They ate, laid aside something for the night, and after their meal Don Alonso tore loose several pickets from a fence and succeeded in starting a fire inside the shed.
That afternoon it began to rain in torrents; the Snake-Man considered it his duty to enliven the company, so he told one tale after the other, always commencing with his eternal refrain of “Once in America....”
“Once in America”—(and this is the least unlikely tale of all he told)—“we were sailing down the Mississippi on a steamer. And let me tell you, those steamboats rock so little that you can play billiards on them. Well, we were sailing along and we reach a certain town. The boat stops and we see a mob of people on the wharf of that village. We draw nearer and we behold that they’re all Indians, with the exception of a few guards and Yankee soldiers.