.."
"It's the Republicans that are behind it all," affirmed El Conejo in
his most serious manner, and he would be off to another place to
spread the news or perpetrate another hoax. He would join a group.
"Have you heard what happened to Weyler?"
"No. What was it?"
"Oh, nothing. On his return from camp some flies attacked his face
and ate up a whole ear. He went across Segovia bridge bleeding
terribly."
This was how the buffoon managed to enjoy himself.
Mornings he would sling his sack over his shoulder and proceed to
the centre of Madrid where he shouted his business through the
thoroughfares, mingling his cries with the names of political
leaders and famous men,--a habit that had won him more than once the
honour of appearing before the police-chief's desk.
El Conejo was as perverse and malevolent as a demon; any maiden in
the vicinity that was going around with a secret bundle might well
tremble lest he surprise her. He knew everything, he scented it out;
apparently, however, he took no mean advantage of his discoveries.
He was content to scare folks out of their wits.
"El Conejo must know," was the regular response when anything was
suspected.
"I don't know a thing; I've seen nothing," he would answer,
laughing. "I don't know anything." And that was all anybody could
get out of him.
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