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“Yes.”

“Fine. I’ll be off now, for I have to buy some glass panes. Speak to the boy.”

“Leave that to me.”

“Thanks for everything. And you’ll drop in to my house, won’t you? Remember, my future and my father’s depend on it.”

“I’ll come.”

Bernardo pressed the hands of his friend effusively and left. Roberto, when he had finished writing, called: “Manuel.”

“What?”

“You were awake, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You heard our conversation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if you’re willing, you know what you can do. You have a chance to learn a profession.”

“I’ll go, if you think it best.”

“It’s up to you.”

“Then I’ll go this very moment.”

Without bidding good-bye to Alex, Manuel left the garret and went off to the Calle de Luchana in search of Bernardo Santín. The apartment was nominally on the third floor, but counting the mezzanine and the ground floor, it was really on the fifth. In response to Manuel’s knocking an aged man with reddish eyes opened the door; it was Bernardo’s father. Manuel explained the purpose of his coming, and the old man shrugged his shoulders, and returned to the kitchen, where he was cooking. Manuel waited for Bernardo to arrive. The house was still without any furniture; there was only a table and a few pots and pans in the kitchen, and two beds in a large room. Bernardo arrived, and the three had lunch and Santín decided that Manuel should ask the janitor for a step-ladder and get busy arranging and inserting the panes of glass in the gallery.