"
Tarugo, who was a buxom, gipsy-like Malaguena, sat down beside
Leandro, and they started a conversation in hushed tones.
The waiter approached.
"Let's have four whiskies," ordered Chivato. "For this chap is going
to drink, too," she added, turning to Manuel and seizing his arm.
"Hey, you there, lad!"
"Eh!" exclaimed the boy, waking up without a notion of his
whereabouts. "What do you want?"
Chivato burst into laughter.
"Wake up, man, you'll lose your express! Did you come in this
afternoon on the mixed train?"
"I came on the ..." and Manuel let loose a stream of obscenity.
Then, in very ugly humour, he began to stare in every direction,
making all manner of efforts not to fall asleep.
At a table set aside a man who looked like a horse-dealer was
discussing the _flamenco_ song and dance with a cross-eyed fellow
bearing every appearance of an assassin.
"There's no more artists," the horse-dealer was saying. "Once upon a
time folks came here to see Pinto, Canito, the Feos, the
Macarronas.... Now what? Now, nothing. Pullets in vinegar."
"That's what," agreed the cross-eyed assassin, very seriously.
"That's the musician," said Chivato, pointing to the latter.
The two singers did not remain very long at the table with Leandro and
Manuel. The cross-eyed fellow was already on the platform; he began to
tune the guitar, and six women sat down around him in a row, beginning
to clap hands in time to the music; Tarugo rose from her seat and
started a side dance, and was soon wiggling her hips convulsively; the
singer commenced to gargarize softly; at intervals he would be silent
and then nothing would be heard save the snapping of Tarugo's fingers
and the clatter of her heels, which played the counterpoint.
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