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WITH COTTAGERS IN MOUNTAINS 177
whole day’s labor for our convenience. So, giving my
reasons for hesitancy, I furtively inquired among the
others to discover whether he really had anything to
do in Granada. They all looked very thoughtful, dis-
cussed the matter at great length among themselves,
mentioned the long and poor road, and finally unani-
mously agreed that there was no doubt he had some-
thing to do in Pinos-Puente, a village that was about
half the way to Granada. It was at the time of the
most important spring farming and they wished to do
justice both to him and to us in equal measure.
So we took our leave and set out upon our return
trip. Alfonso had his little eight-year-old boy sitting
in state before him on the donkey. My wife and I
preferred to walk on foot through the steep village.
It was early morning and there were great numbers of
workers in the market-place, while a few men in cloaks
were going about inspecting them.
“That is the slave-market,’ muttered Alfonso.
“You see, they feel of them with their hands, almost
as if they were beasts.”
For quite a time he was silent, uncommunicative;
then the sun came out above the Sierra and he once
more became animated. He did not wish to ride, but
walked by the side of my donkey, leaning on my cane,
speaking of the time when there should be no masters
and no wage-laborers of any kind, no poverty and no
capitalists. His cheeks assumed their red roses of
yesterday. He took a soiled book out of his pocket.
“I have this thing with me when I work in the fields
and when I travel on foot, always,” he said. “It sets
the fire burning in you when you begin to be luke-
warm.” It was the anarchist almanac, which contained
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