a
Perfecta amiably; "and the Senor Penitentiary also."

The worthy Don Inocencio drew from under his cassock a large leather
cigar-case, which showed unmistakable signs of long use, opened it, and
took from it two long cigarettes, one of which he offered to our friend.
Rosario took a match from a little leaf-shaped matchbox, which the
Spaniards ironically call a wagon, and the engineer and the canon were
soon puffing their smoke over each other.

"And what does Senor Don Jose think of our dear city of Orbajosa?" asked
the canon, shutting his left eye tightly, according to his habit when he
smoked.

"I have not yet been able to form an idea of the town," said Pepe. "From
the little I have seen of it, however, I think that half a dozen large
capitalists disposed to invest their money here, a pair of intelligent
heads to direct the work of renovating the place, and a couple of
thousands of active hands to carry it out, would not be a bad thing
for Orbajosa. Coming from the entrance to the town to the door of this
house, I saw more than a hundred beggars. The greater part of them are
healthy, and even robust men. It is a pitiable army, the sight of which
oppresses the heart."

"That is what charity is for," declared Don Inocencio. "Apart from that,
Orbajosa is not a poor town. You are already aware that the best garlic
in all Spain is produced here. There are more than twenty rich families
living among us."

"It is true," said Dona Perfecta, "that the last few years have been
wretched, owing to the drought; but even so, the granaries are not
empty, and several thousands of strings of garlic were recently carried
to market."

"During the many years that I have lived in Orbajosa," said the priest,
with a frown, "I have seen innumerable persons come here from the
capital, some brought by the electoral hurly-burly, others to visit some
abandoned site, or to see the antiquities of the cathedral, and they
all talk to us about the English ploughs and threshing-machines and
water-power and banks, and I don't know how many other absurdities. The
burden of their song is that this place is very backward, and that it
could be improved. Let them keep away from us, in the devil's name!
We are well enough as we are, without the gentlemen from the capital
visiting us; a great deal better off without hearing that continual
clamor about our poverty and the grandeurs and the wonders of other
places. The fool in his own house is wiser