CHAPTER VIII
On The Track of El Bizco—The Outskirts—The Ideal of Jesús
After spending the day at work in the printing shop, Manuel reported at nine in the night at Ortiz’s home.
“That’s the way I like it,” said the chief to him. “With military punctuality.”
Ortiz armed himself with a revolver, which he placed in his belt; a stick, which he secured to his wrist with a thong; a rope. To Manuel he gave a cudgel, and they left together.
“Let’s make a round of these chop-houses,” said the guard to Manuel. “And you keep your eye peeled for El Bizco.”
As they walked up the Calle de Arganzuela they struck up a conversation.
Ortiz was a member of the police who was genuinely enamoured of his profession. His father had belonged to the force before him, and the instinct of pursuit flowed as strong in their veins as in the veins of a hunter dog.
According to the tale he told, Ortiz had been a carbineer on the Málaga coast, eternally at war with the smugglers, until he came to Madrid and joined the police department.