When Gregorio woke the sun was high in the heavens, blazing out of a brazen sky. Clouds of dust swept past the door from time to time, and cut his neck and face as he stood on the threshold smoking lazily. It was too late to go down to the quay, for his place must have long ago been filled by another. He was not sorry, since he by no means desired to toil again under the hot sun; the heavy drinking of the night had made him lethargic, and he was so thirsty the heat nearly choked him. He called out to a water-carrier staggering along in the scanty shade on the opposite side of the street, and took eagerly a draught of water. He touched the pigskin with his hand, and it was hot. The water was warm and made him sick; he spat it from his mouth hastily, and hearing a laugh behind him, turned round and saw Madam Marx. “See, here is some wine, my friend; leave the water for the Arabs.” Gregorio gratefully seized the flagon and let the wine trickle down his throat, while Madam Marx, with arms akimbo, stood patiently before him. “I must go now,” he said, as he handed back the half-emptied flask. “Why?” “Because I must get some work.” “It is not easy to get work in the summer.” “I know, but I must get some. I owe money to Amos.” “Yes, I know. But your wife is making money now.” The man scowled at her. “How do you know that? Before God, I swear that she is not.” “Come, come, Gregorio. You were drunk last night, and your tongue wagged pretty freely. It’s not a bit of use being angry with me, because I only know what you’ve told me. Besides, I’m your friend, you know that.” Gregorio flushed angrily at the woman’s words, but he knew quite well it was no use replying to them, for she was speaking only the truth. But the knowledge that he had betrayed his secret annoyed him. He had grown used to the facts and could look at them easily enough, but he had not reckoned on others also learning them. He determined to go out and find work, or at any rate to tramp the streets pretending to look for something to do. The woman became intolerable to him, and the Penny-farthing Shop, reeking with the odour of stale tobacco and spilled liquor, poisoned him. He took up his hat brusquely and stepped into the street. Madam Marx, standing at the door, laughed at him as she called out, “Good-bye, Gregorio; when will you come back?” He did not answer, but the sound of her laughter followed him up the street, and he kicked angrily at the stones in his path. At last he passed by the Ras-el-Tin barracks. He looked curiously at the English soldiers. Some were playing polo on the hard brown space to the left, and from the windows of the building men leaned out, their shirt-sleeves rolled up and their strong arms bared to the sun. They smoked short clay pipes, and innumerable little blue spiral clouds mounted skyward. Obviously the heat did not greatly inconvenience them, for they laughed and sang and drank oceans of beer.