Trouble with the Escaroz horses; Pedro and I go to the monastery of San Juan; there we meet "Figaro"; I return to Berdun; am surprised at the municipal arrangements for refuse; Doña Conchita objects to being carried in a lobster pot; more news of the fat man Drinking our lumpy chocolate next morning in the albergue, Pedro and I were startled by the voice of Tomas the coachman, aroused in fury and denunciation. "What is the matter?" I asked, walking out into the narrow street to join him. "Matter? What is the matter? The matter is that somebody has poisoned Señor Escaroz's horses—they are all sick and dying—Valgame Dios! Better horses never came out of Andalusia, and now they are sweating and frothing and near their end. How shall I ever be able to face my master?" "Where are the horses?" They were, it seemed, stabled in the valley below the town, so Pedro and I walked down a steep footpath that dropped from corner to corner of the zigzag road leading to the main gate. On the level ground stood groups of barns and farm buildings where the townspeople kept their mules and goats, cattle and poultry, for which there was no space among the houses tighdy crammed together up on the bluff.
What do You think about (2/3) The Teeth Of The Gale?
