“He’s killing me! He’s killing
me!” shrieked the agent in feminine wails.
“Thief! Clown!” shouted Manuel, employing
the street’s choicest repertory of insults.
The Superman and the priest seized Manuel by the arms,
leaving him at the mercy of the salesman, who, beholding
the boy thus corralled, tried to wreak vengeance;
but when he was ready to strike, Manuel gave him such
a forceful kick in the stomach that the fellow vomited
up his whole meal.
Everybody took sides against Manuel, except Roberto,
who defended him. The agent retired to his room,
summoned the landlady, and told her that he refused
to remain another moment as long as Petra’s son
was in the house.
The landlady, whose chief interest was to retain her
boarder, communicated her decision to her servant.
“Now see what you’ve done. You can’t
stay here any longer,” said Petra to her son.
“All right. That clown will pay for these,”
replied the boy, nursing the welts on his forehead.
“I tell you, if I ever meet him I’m going
to smash in his head.”
“You take good care not to say a word to him.”
At this moment the student happened to enter the dining-room.
“You did well, Manuel,” he exclaimed,
turning to Petra. “What right had that
blockhead to insult him? In this place every boss
has a right to attack his neighbour if he doesn’t
do as all the others wish. What a cowardly gang!”
As he spoke, Roberto blanched with rage; then he grew
calm and asked Petra:
“Where are you going to take Manuel now?”
“To a cobbler’s shop that belongs to a
relative of mine on Aguila street.”
“Is it in the poorer quarters?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come to see you some day.”
Before Manuel had gone to bed, Roberto appeared again
in the dining-room.
“Listen,” he said to Manuel. “If
you know any strange place in the slums where criminals
get together, let me hear. I’ll go with
you.”
“I’ll let you know, never you mind.”
“Fine. See you again. Good-bye!”
Roberto extended his hand to Manuel, who pressed it
with deep gratitude.
The Regeneration of Footwear and The Lion
of The Shoemaker’s
Art—The First Sunday—An
Escapade—El Bizco and his Gang.
The inhabitant of Madrid who at times finds himself
by accident in the poor quarters near the Manzanares
river, is surprised at the spectacle of poverty and
sordidness, of sadness and neglect presented by the
environs of Madrid with their wretched Rondas, laden
with dust in the summer and in winter wallowing in
mire. The capital is a city of contrasts; it
presents brilliant light in close proximity to deep
gloom; refined life, almost European, in the centre;
in the suburbs, African existence, like that of an
Arab village. Some years ago, not many, in the
vicinity of the Ronda de Sevilla and of el Campillo
de Gil Imon, there stood a house of suspicious aspect
and of not very favourable repute, to judge by popular
rumour. The observer ...
