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At noon the amanuensis arose, clapped his hat down upon his head, and went off without a word or a salute.

Mingote placed his hand upon Manuel’s shoulder and said to him, in fatherly fashion:

“Well, you can go home now to eat, and be back at about two.”

Manuel climbed up to the studio; neither Roberto nor Alejo was there; nor was a crumb to be found in the entire establishment. He rummaged through all the corners, returning by half-past one, to Don Bonifacio’s where, between one yawn and another, he continued to address the circulars.

Mingote was highly pleased with Manuel’s proficiency, and either because of this, or because at his meal he had devoted himself excessively to Estrellado Fernández’ Anis, he surrendered himself to the most incoherent and picturesque verbosity, his gaze as ever fixed upon the ceiling. Manuel laughed loud guffaws at Don Bonifacio’s comical, extravagant witticisms.

“You’re not like my secretary,” said the agent to him, flattered by the boy’s manifestations of pleasure. “He doesn’t crack a smile at my jokes, but then he steals them from me and repeats them, all garbled, in those cheap little funereal pieces he writes. And that’s not the worst. Read this.” And Mingote handed Manuel a printed announcement.