intimacy. Desnoyers and his wife often had to come to their rescue,
accusing the grandfather of injustice. And in order to pour the vials of
his wrath out on someone, the old plainsman would hunt up Celedonio, the
best of his listeners, who invariably replied, "Yes, Patron. That's so,
Patron."

"They're not to blame," agreed the old man, "but I can't abide them!
Besides, they are so like their father, so fair, with hair like a
shredded carrot, and the two oldest wearing specs as if they were court
clerks! . . . They don't seem like folks with those glasses; they look
like sharks."

Madariaga had never seen any sharks, but he imagined them, without
knowing why, with round, glassy eyes, like the bottoms of bottles.

By the time he was eight years old, Julio was a famous little
equestrian. "To horse, peoncito," his grandfather would cry, and away
they would race, streaking like lightning across the fields, midst
thousands and thousands of horned herds. The "peoncito," proud of his
title, obeyed the master in everything, and so learned to whirl the
lasso over the steers, leaving them bound and conquered. Upon making
his pony take a deep ditch or creep along the edge of the cliffs, he
sometimes fell under his mount, but clambered up gamely.

"Ah, fine cowboy!" exclaimed the grandfather bursting with pride in his
exploits. "Here are five dollars for you to give a handkerchief to some
china."

The old man, in his increasing mental confusion, did not gauge his gifts
exactly with the lad's years; and the infantile horseman, while keeping