boy’s eye hit me like a bullet and stopped me in my tracks. It was one of those cold, clammy, accusing sort of eyes—the kind that makes you reach up to see if your tie is straight: and he looked at me as if I were some sort of unnecessary product which Cuthbert the Cat had brought in after a ramble among the local ashcans. He was a stoutish infant with a lot of freckles and a good deal of jam on his face.
—¡Hola! ¡Hola! ¡Hola! —dije.
—¿Qué?
No parecía haber mucho más que decir.
El muchacho me miró de una manera desagradable a través de la mermelada. Puede que me hubiera querido a primera vista,