“Are you going to the Comercio?” asked one driver.
“No, they are going to the España,” said the other.
“Then you two know more than we do,” answered Alzugaray, “because we don’t know where to go.”
“To the Comercio!”
“To the España!”
“Whose coach is this one?” asked Cæsar, pointing to the less dirty of the two.
“The Comercio’s.”
“All right, then we are going to the Comercio.”
The coach, in spite of being the better of the two, was a rickety, worn-out old omnibus, with its windows broken and spotted. It was drawn by three skinny mules, full of galls. Cæsar and Alzugaray got in and waited. The coachman, with the whip around his neck, and a young man who looked a bit like a seminarian, began to chat and smoke.
At the end of five minutes’ waiting, Cæsar asked: