“A few nights ago I went out staggering, famished, and made my way to an Emergency Hospital. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I was asked by an attendant. ‘Hunger.’ ‘That’s not a disease,’ he replied. Then I went begging and now I go every night to the Salamanca quarter, and I tell passing women that a little boy of mine has just died and that I need a few reales with which to purchase candles. They are horrified and usually come across with something. I’ve also found a place to sleep. It’s over yonder by the river.”
The trio ate their next meal at the María Cristina barracks, and in the afternoon the Snake-Man left for his centre of operations in the Salamanca quarter.
“I’ve made a peseta and a half today,” he said to Manuel and Jesús. “Let’s go for supper.”
They supped at the Barcelona hostelry, on the Calle del Caballero de Gracia, and spent whatever was left on whisky.
Thereupon they repaired to the spot that had been discovered by Don Alonso,—a tumbledown dwelling near the Toledo bridge. They christened it the Black House. Nothing was left of it save the four walls, which had been levelled to the height of the first story.
It stood in the centre of an orchard; for roof it had a wattle over which projected a number of beams as black and straight as smokestacks.
The three entered the ruin. They crossed the patio, leaping over débris, tiles, rotten wood and mounds of ordure. They made their way through a corridor. Don Alonso struck a match, holding it lighted in the hollow of his palms. Some gipsy families and several beggars dwelt here in secret. Some had made their beds of rags and straw; others were asleep, leaning against matweed ropes that were fastened to the wall.
Don Alonso had his special corner, to which he took Manuel and Jesús.
The floor was damp, earthen; a few of the house walls were still standing; the holes in the roof were plugged with bunches of cane that had been gathered by the river, and with pieces of matting.