“Not always.”
There was a general silence. All at once there was a hubbub of voices in the passageway; soon it became a pandemonium of women’s shrieks, curses and weeping.
“Hey, there, quit your shoving!”
“Damn the cuss!”
“Get along with you, now. Get along,” ordered a man’s voice.
This was a rout of some thirty women who had been arrested on the streets. They were all locked up in the cage next to the men. Some were shouting, others were groaning, and still others brought forth their choicest repertory of abuse, which they hurled at the heads of the Police Captain and the Chief of the Board of Health.
“There isn’t a sound one among them,” observed Don Alonso.
It seemed to Manuel that he made out the voices of La Chata and La Rabanitos. After locking up the women a sergeant came over to the men’s cage.
“Señor Sergeant,” spoke up Don Alonso. “There’s a fellow here who’s sick.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”