Hanging from his neck was a canister into which he threw the
cigarette ends that he gathered.
"Where do you live?" Manuel asked him.
"I haven't any father or mother," answered the urchin, evasively.
"What's your name?"
"The Orphan."
"And why do they call you that?"
"Why! Because I'm a foundling."
"And didn't you ever have a home?"
"No."
"And where do you sleep?"
"Well, in the summer I sleep in the caves, or in yards, and in winter,
in the asphalt caldrons."
"And when they're not doing any asphalting?"
"In some shelter or other."
"All right, then. But what do you eat?"
"Whatever I'm given."
"And do you manage to do well?"
Either the foundling did not understand the question or it appeared
quite silly to him, for he merely shrugged his shoulders. Manuel
continued his curious interrogatory.
"Aren't your feet cold?"
"No."
"And don't you do anything?"
"Psch! ... whatever turns up. I pick up stubs, I sell sand, and when I
can't earn anything I go to the Maria Cristina barracks."
"What for?"
"What for? For a meal, of course."
"And where's this barracks?"
"Near the Atocha station. Why? Would you like to go there, too?"
"Yes, I would."
"Well, let's come along then, or we'll miss mess time."
The two got up and started on their journey. The Orphan begged at the
stores on the road and was given two slices of bread and a small coin.
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