The sympathetic personality of his well-connected manager, Don José, served the torero as a guarantee in his new existence. Besides, Gallardo, with the cunning of a former street urchin, knew how to make himself popular with this brilliant set, among whom he met "relations" by the dozen.
He played heavily. It was the best way of drawing closer to his new friends. He played and lost, with the proverbial ill-luck of a man fortunate in other undertakings, and his ill-luck became a matter of pride to the club.
"Gallardo was cleared out last night," said the members proudly. "He must have lost at least eleven thousand pesetas."
The calmness with which he lost his money made his new friends respect him, but the new passion soon grew upon him, even to the point of making him sometimes forget his great lady. To play with all the best in Seville! To find himself treated as an equal by these gentlemen! Thanks to the fraternity established by loans of money and common emotions!
One night a large lamp suddenly crashed down on to the green table. There was sudden darkness and wild confusion, but the imperious voice of Gallardo rang out:
"Calm yourselves, gentlemen. Nothing much has happened. Let the game go on. They are bringing candles."
And the game went on, his companions admiring him even more for his energetic speech, than for the way in which he killed his bulls.
The manager's friends questioned him as to Gallardo's losses. Surely he would ruin himself: everything he earned by bull-fighting he lost by gambling. But Don José smiled disdainfully.
"This year we had more corridas than anyone else. We shall become tired of killing bulls and piling up money.... Let the lad enjoy himself. He works for this and is what he is ... the first man in the world."