is what you mean to do. Tell the truth, now.”
“The truth!” responded Juan, availing himself of another subterfuge. “Then, though—because I was not prepared to tell it—I have not complied with the church this year, I am to tell it to you! No, sir! ‘He that reveals his secret, remains without it.’”
“It is plain enough from your crafty answer that your mind is made up. So you needn’t deny it, nor put me off with palaver.”
“The thing is yet in the blade, and to be nibbled at,” replied Juan.
“Do you know, Christian, what you are about? For the beginning of a cure is a knowledge of the sickness.”
“Yes, sir, I have my five senses counted.”
“Yes, Juan, four of them useless, and one empty. But, my son, you know me well, is it not so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are sure that I am your friend?”
“I don’t say no to that, Uncle Bartolo.”