“If you stand in with Retana in this town, you’re a made man,” the tall waiter said. “If you aren’t in with him, you might just as well go out and shoot yourself.” “You said it,” the other waiter who had come in said. “You said it then.” “You’re right I said it,” said the tall waiter. “I know what I’m talking about when I talk about that bird.” “Look what he’s done for Villalta,” the first waiter said. “And that ain’t all,” the tall waiter said. “Look what he’s done for Marcial Lalanda. Look what he’s done for Nacional.” “You said it, kid,” agreed the short waiter. Manuel looked at them, standing talking in front of his table. He had drunk his second brandy. They had forgotten about him. They were not interested in him. “Look at that bunch of camels,” the tall waiter went on. “Did you ever see this Nacional II?” “I seen him last Sunday didn’t I?” the original waiter said. “He’s a giraffe,” the short waiter said. “What did I tell you?” the tall waiter said. “Those are Retana’s boys.” “Say, give me another shot of that,” Manuel said. He had poured the brandy the waiter had slopped over in the saucer into his glass and drank it while they were talking. The original waiter poured his glass full mechanically, and the three of them went out of the room talking. In the far corner the man was still asleep, snoring slightly on the intaking breath, his head back against the wall. Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy himself. It was too hot to go out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited. He kicked his suitcase under the table to be sure it was there. Perhaps it would be better to put it back under the seat, against the wall. He leaned down and shoved it under. Then he leaned forward on the table and went to sleep. When he woke there was some one sitting across the table from him. It was a big man with a heavy brown face like an Indian. He had been sitting there some time. He had waved the waiter away and sat reading the paper and occasionally looking down at Manuel, asleep, his head on the table. He read the paper laboriously, forming the words with his lips as he read. When it tired him he looked at Manuel. He sat heavily in the chair, his black Cordoba hat tipped forward. Manuel sat up and looked at him. “Hello, Zurito,” he said. “Hello, kid,” the big man said. “I’ve been asleep.” Manuel rubbed his forehead with the back of his fist. “I thought maybe you were.” “How’s everything?” “Good. How is everything with you?” “Not so good.” They were both silent. Zurito, the picador, looked at Manuel’s white face. Manuel looked down at the picador’s enormous hands folding the paper to put away in his pocket. “I got a favor to ask you, Manos,” Manuel said. Manosduros was Zurito’s nickname. He never heard it without thinking of his huge hands. He put them forward on the table self-consciously. “Let’s have a drink,” he said. “Sure,” said Manuel.