“Right you are. You’re frank enough.... What the devil! See here, I’d do anything for you, and I don’t mind letting you in on how we fellows live. You’re a queer, good-natured duck. You’re not one of those brutes who think of nothing but murdering and assassinating folks. I’ll tell you openly—why shouldn’t I?—I’m not much of a hero....”
“Nor I!” exclaimed Manuel.
“Bah! You’re brave. Even El Bizco had respect for you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“You don’t say!”
“As you wish. But getting back to what we were talking about: you and I,—especially me—were born to be rich. But as cursed luck would have it, we’re not. It’s impossible to make a fortune by working, and nobody can tell me different. To save up anything at all, you’ve got to poke yourself into a corner and work away like a mule for thirty years. And how much does a fellow manage to get together? A few measly pesetas. Total: nothin’. You can’t make money? Then you’ve got to see to it that you take it from somebody else, and take it without danger of doing time.”
“And how do you manage that?”
“That’s the question. There’s the rub. See here: When I came to the heart of the city from Casa Blanca, I was a petty-thief, a pickpocket. For nothing at all they sent me up for two weeks to the cage in El Abanico, and when I think of it, kid, I get goose-flesh. I was more afraid than ashamed of being a robber, that’s a fact; but what was I to do? One day, when I stole some electric bulbs from a house on the Calle del Olivo, the janitress, an ugly old hag, caught me in the act and began to run after me, crying, ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ I grew wings on my feet, as you may imagine. Reaching the San Luis church I dropped the bulbs, slipped in among the crowd in church and crouched into a pew; they didn’t catch me. But ever since that day, boy, I’ve been scared out of my wits. Yet, as you see, despite my fright, I haven’t changed my ways.”
“Did you go back to stealing bulbs?”