Underneath the cart, attached to it by a chain, jogged along in
leisurely fashion a dog with yellowish locks, long and lustrous,--an
amiable creature who appeared to Manuel as good a canine as his master
was a human being.
* * * * *
Between the Segovia and Toledo bridges, not far from the head of
Imperial Avenue, there opens a dark depression with a cluster of two
or three squalid, wretched huts. It is a quadrangular ditch, blackened
by smoke and coal dust, hemmed in by crumbling walls and heaps of
rubbish.
As he reached the edge of this depression, the rag-dealer stopped and
pointed out to Manuel a hovel standing next to a broken-down
merry-go-round and some swings, saying:
"That's my house; take the cart down there and unload it. Can you do
that?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Then tell my wife to give you a bite."
Manuel accompanied the cart into the hollow over an embankment of
rubbish. The ragdealer's house was the largest in the vicinity and had
a yard as well as an adjoining shed.
Manuel stopped before the door of the hut; an old woman came out to
meet him.
"What do you want, kid?" she asked. "Who sent you here?"
"Senor Custodio. He told me to ask you where to put the stuff that's
in the cart.
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