But all this was an old story to me. Scarcely glancing to left or right, I picked my way across the court to where a once gorgeous signboard informed all who were interested that one, Miguel José Salceda, was the proprietor of the ramshackle shop wherein were to be found antiques, second-hand articles, books, native handiwork, cigars, tobacco and onions--a strange assortment truly, but quite the usual thing in the confines of the plazuela. The shop itself was a mere cubby hole in the massive stone wall of what had once been a monastery, but Miguel José had the entire plazuela at his disposal, and he had taken possession of several square yards of it. On boxes, tables and upon the stone flagging the overflow of his stock was spread and piled--looking for all the world as though the shop had spilled itself into the square--and, seated in the midst of the aggregation of everything imaginable in the shape of junk and odds and ends, was the _don_ himself. Propped against the wall in the sunshine, his touseled gray head sagging forward on his bare hairy chest, his hands clasped across his paunch, Señor Salceda was enjoying his afternoon siesta--as his raucous snores testified to all the world. Having no need to disturb his slumbers, I moved about among his wares, examining the litter of battered and dust-covered books upon a rough deal table. Presently, Salceda raised his head, yawned prodigiously, stretched himself and, slowly and reluctantly opening his single eye, caught sight of me. Instantly, and with surprising agility for a man of his build, he sprang to his feet and hurried forward, grinning until his leathery, unshaven cheeks resembled a relief-map of his native Pyrennes, and exposing two yellow tusks in his otherwise toothless gums. “Gracias a Dios, ’tis the Señor Ingles again!” he cried, patting me on the back, embracing me in Spanish fashion and exuding an almost overpowering odor of garlic. “And how is the illustrious Señor, and his dear Mamá and his most lovely Señora, and his four--no, I mistake, it is five--niñitos?” “No, Don Miguel,” I replied with a laugh, “it is not the English Señor but the Americano, and unfortunately, as I have neither mother, wife nor children--either four or five--I cannot tell you how they may fare. Personally, amigo, I am in excellent health. And how is Don Miguel and his family?” * * * * *