“The Rebel hasn’t come?” asked the whiskered one.
“No,” replied the bookseller. “It didn’t come out this week.”
“They must have reported it,” said the whiskered one. “Yes, probably.”
“Has the doctor been in?” the shaven, little man with the black braid asked in his turn.
“No.”
“All right. Let’s go see if we can find him in the club. Salutations!”
“Good-bye.”
“Who are those rascals?” asked Alzugaray, when they had gone out.
“They are two anarchists that we have here, who accuse me of being a bourgeois... ha... ha.... The shaven one is the son of the landlady of an inn who is called Furibis, and they call him that too. He used to be a Federalist. They call the other one ‘Whiskers,’ and he came here from Linares, not long ago.”
“What do they do?”