Leandro, without listening to his companion, walked to the Puerta del
Sol, and the two very silently turned into Montera Street and around
the corner of Jardines. It was past one. As the pair walked on,
prostitutes in their gay attire accosted them from the doorways in
which they lurked, but looking into Leandro's grim countenance and
Manuel's poverty-stricken features the girls let them walk on,
following them with a gibe at their seriousness.
Midway up the narrow, gloomy street shone a red lamp, which
illuminated the squalid front of the Marina cafe.
Leandro shoved the door open and they went inside. At one end the
platform, with four or five mirrors, glittered dazzlingly; the floor
was so tightly jammed with rows of tables thrust against either wall
that only a narrow passage was left in the middle.
Leandro and Manuel found a seat. Manuel rested his forehead against
his palm and was soon asleep; Leandro beckoned to one of the two
singers, who were gaily dressed and were conversing with some fat
women, and the two singers sat down at his table.
"What'll you have?" asked Leandro.
"Canary-seed for me," answered one of them,--a slender, nervous type
with small eyes that were ringed with cosmetics.
"And what's your name?"
"Mine? Maria la Chivato,"
"And that girl's?"
"La Tarugo.
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