“What is this?” he cried, in terror.
“You are a miserable puppet,” thundered Don Mateo, shaking his fists at me above Albar’s head. “When I meet you in the street I will pull your ears.”
“We shall see,” I replied.
“Wretched, insignificant boy.”
“Stop! enough of this,” cried Albar, with all the force of his lungs. “What is the matter?”
“Señor Albar,” I said, “I heard all that was said. I can write nothing about this man; not a word.”
“Nor will I permit that he shall write,” bellowed Don Mateo, choked with rage; “I will not consent to it.”
“Then he shall not write; enough said,” replied Albar.
Bueso stood before me undisturbed; with his hands in his pockets he looked me over with an air of curiosity.
“That means that Javier will write it,” he said completing Don Pablo’s thought.
Escorroza, at the sound of voices, had come upstairs and, at this moment, arrived.
“Very well,” said the Director, “let it be so. As Quiñones refuses and the General does not consent, Escorroza will be charged with writing all relative to——”
“To the Señor General? With the greatest pleasure,” broke in Don Javier.
“And he will do it much better,” said Bueso.