"What's so wonderful about this, I'd like to know?" asked Manuel.
Leandro smiled; they returned as they had come, disturbing the player
once more and resuming their seats at the table.
Roberto and Fanny conversed in English.
"That fellow we made get up," said Leandro, "is the bully of this
place."
"What's his name?" asked Fanny.
"El Valencia."
The man they were speaking about, hearing his sobriquet mentioned,
turned around and eyed Leandro; for a moment their glances crossed
defiantly; Valencia turned his eyes away and continued playing. He was
a strong man, about forty, with high cheek bones, reddish skin and a
disagreeably sarcastic expression. Every once in a while he would cast
a severe look at the group formed by Fanny, Roberto and the other two.
"And that Valencia,--who is he?" asked the lady in a low voice.
"He's a mat maker by trade," answered Leandro, raising his voice. "A
tramp that wheedles money out of low-lives; before he used to belong
to the _pote_,--the kind that visit houses on Sundays, knock, and
when they see nobody's home, stick their jimmy into the lock and
zip!... But he hasn't the courage even for this, 'cause his liver is
whiter than paper."
"It would be curious to investigate," said Roberto, "just how far
poverty has served as centre of gravity for the degradation of these
men.
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