"Have you a home?" asked the man.
"No, sir."
"And you sleep in the open?"
"Well, as I haven't any home...."
The ragpicker began to rake over the ground, fished up some objects
and various papers, shoved them into the sack and turning his gaze
again upon Manuel, added:
"You'd be better off if you went to work."
"If I had work, I'd work; but I haven't, so ..."--and Manuel, wearied
of these useless words, huddled into his corner to continue his
slumbers.
"See here," said the ragdealer, "you come along with me. I need a boy
... I'll feed you."
Manuel looked at the man without replying.
"Well, do you want to or not? Hurry up and decide."
Manuel lazily arose. The rag man, sack slung across his shoulder,
climbed the slope of the embankment until he reached Rosales Street,
where he had a cart drawn by two donkeys. The man told them to move on
and they ambled down toward the Paseo de la Florida, thence through
Virgen del Puerto Avenue to the Ronda de Segovia. The cart, with its
license plate and number, was a tumbledown affair, held together by
strips of brass, and was laden with two or three sacks, buckets and
baskets.
The ragman, Senor Custodio,--that was what he gave as his
name,--looked like a good-natured soul.
From time to time he would bend over, pick up something from the
street and throw it into the cart.
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