..."
The three came to a halt and lay down upon the sod. For more than an
hour they remained there, discussing women and ways and means of
procuring money.
"Got any money about you?" asked Vidal of Manuel and Bizco.
"Two reales," replied the latter.
"Well, then, invite us to something," suggested Vidal. "Let's have a
bottle."
Bizco assented, grumblingly, so they arose and took their way toward
Madrid. A procession of whitish mules filed past them; a young,
swarthy gipsy, with a long stick under his arm, mounted upon the last
mule of the procession, kept shouting at every step: "Corone, corone!"
"So long, swell!" shouted Vidal to him.
"God be with all good folk," answered the gipsy in a hoarse voice.
They reached a road tavern beside a ragpicker's hut, stopped, and
Vidal ordered the bottle of wine.
"What's this factory?" asked Manuel, pointing to a structure at the
left of the Andalucia road on the way back to Madrid.
"They make money out of blood," answered Vidal solemnly.
Manuel stared at him in fright.
"Yes. They make glue out of the blood that's left over in the
slaughter-house," added his cousin, laughing.
Vidal poured the wine into the glasses and the three gulped it down.
Yonder, above the avenue of trees on the Canal, could be made out
Madrid, with its long, level cluster of houses.
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