The outcasts of the heart of
the city were a distinct class with other gradations.
There were times when Bizco and Vidal had gone through intense want,
existing upon cats and rats and seeking shelter in the caves upon San
Blas hill, of Madrid Moderno, and in the Eastern Cemetery. But by this
time the pair knew their business.
"And work? Nothing?" asked Manuel.
"Work! ... Let the cat work," scoffed Vidal.
They didn't work, stuttered Bizco; who was going to get fresh with him
while he had his trusty steel in his hand?
Into the brain of this wild beast there had not penetrated, even
vaguely, any idea of rights or duties. No duties, no rights or
anything at all. To him, might was right; the world was a hunting
wood. Only humble wretches could obey the law of labour. That's what
he said: Let fools work, if they hadn't the nerve to live like men.
As the three thus conversed a man and a woman with a child in her arms
passed by. They looked dejected, like famished, persecuted folk, their
glance timid and awed.
"There's the workers for you," exclaimed Vidal. "That's how they are."
"The devil take them," muttered Bizco.
"Where are they bound for?" asked Manuel, eyeing them sympathetically.
"To the tile-works," answered Vidal. "To sell saffron, as we say
around here."
"And why do they say that?"
"Because saffron is so dear.
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