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162 DAYS IN THE SUN
his lips in motion as if he were reading these Russian
hieroglyphics and returns our papers to us with a pro-
tective nod. Always this performance is a lot of fun.
It is now afternoon. We have probably covered
half of our journey, and are going down the other side
of the hills to the edge of the Vega in order to finish
the trip to Granada by train. At the station we meet
an acquaintance from Seville: Don Louis, one of the
leaders of the South Spanish Revolutionary Party,
handsome, a little too well-groomed. He dazzles the
eye with his gold and his diamonds and his neat mani-
curing. He is taking a trip to the poor people of the
mountains to carry on subversive agitation. He pro-
poses that we accompany him to the village of X.,
where a local branch of the Federation is to be estab-
lished.
He is met at the station by a two-wheeled cart and
we trundle up hill again with him, drawn by a skele-
ton which the driver maintains is a mule. Five minutes
later the animal confirms the statement by an attack
of rage and obstinacy. It suddenly stands still on a
steep ascent, walks backward, and almost plunges us
into the depths. We save ourselves, as well as the
beast, by getting out of the cart and holding fast to
the spokes of the wheels. These mountain-dwellers
are accustomed to such interruptions, and in a moment
the driver and his companion are again on their seat,
inviting us once more to get in.
Shortly before we reach the village, two cottagers
come out to meet us, typical Andalusian mountain peas-
ants, lean and smooth-shaven, light of foot, wearing
broad-brimmed hats, scarfs, and laced shoes. The
name of the elder is Pedro R. He is head of the agri-
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