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 then, senors, out of the exalted mercy of the Saints.
Ah, those were great times, when I had my eyes, and no grey hairs,
and could wear my sword, and ride my horses. There was work to do then,