look of it showed
the hand of youth, its bold carelessness, a boy. Some of it I set
down soon afterwards, and it ran in this fashion: "The most good
old compadre! But I'd like another real." Again: "One media for a
banderilla, two reals for the bull-fight, five centavos for the sweet
oranges, and nothing for dulces. I threw a cigar at the toreador. It was
no good, but the toreador was a king. Good-night, compadre the blind,
who begs." Again: "If I knew where it was I'd take a real. Carambo!
No, I wouldn't. I'll ask him. I'll give him the new sword-stick that my
cousin the Rurales gave me. He doesn't need it now he's not a bandit.
I'm stuffed, and my head swims. It's the pulque. Sabe Dios!" Again:
"Compadre, the most miraculous, that goes tapping your stick along the
wall, and jingles the silver in your pocket, whither do you wander? Have
you forgotten that I am going to the cock-fight, and want a real? What
is a cock-fight without a real? Compadre the brave, who stumbles along
and never falls, I am sitting on your doorstep, and I am writing on your
wall--if I had as much money as you I'd go to every bull-fight. I'd keep
a fighting-cock myself." And once again: "If I was blind I'd have money
out of the cafes, but I couldn't see my bulls toss the horses. I'll be
a bandit, and when I'm old, and if Diaz doesn't put me against the wall
and prod holes in me like Gonzales, they'll take me in the Rurales, same
as Gerado."

"Who is it writes on the wall, Becodar?" asked Sherry of our host, as,
on his knees, he poured out pulque for us.

The old man turned musingly, and made motions of writing, a pleased look
in his face. "Ah, senor, he who so writes is Bernal--I am his compadre.
He has his mother now, but no father, no father." He smiled. "You have
never seen so bold and enterprising, never so handsome a boy. He can
throw the lasso and use the lariat, and ride--sabe Dios, he can ride!
His cousin Gerado the Rurales taught him. I do well by him as I may, who
have other things to think on. But I do well by him."

"What became of his father, Becodar? Dead?" asked Sherry.

The beggar crossed himself. "Altogether, senor. And such a funeral had
he, with the car all draped, and even the mutes with the gold braid on
their black. I will tell you how it was. We were great friends, Bernal's
father and me, and when the boy was born, I said, I will be compadre
to him. ('Godfather, or co-father,' interposed Sherry to me.) I had my
sight t