THE old fellow grinned wider than ever. “Si, I remember,” he muttered as he rolled a cigarette. “But of what importance, Señor, whether Americano or Ingles? They are the same species; all are rich, all are fond of old books, and all will have their little joke. And as for the others--Valgame Dios--if you have no mother now, you had one once--may her soul rest in peace; and such a simpatico Señor should have a lovely Señora and the four--nay five--little ones. _Bien pues!_ What would you? But of a truth I am overcome with joy and happiness to find your highness well. Permit me, Señor, to offer you a sip of wine.” To refuse would be to jeopardize friendship and the chance of a good bargain, and as I had by now selected two rare old volumes that I greatly wanted, a good bargain was desirable. Besides, Salceda always had most excellent wine. Good fellowship having been thus established, I asked the old fellow the price of the two books. One was a scarce edition of “Don Quixote,” the other a copy of a quaint work on the Antilles, and both were battered, stained, their covers torn and warped, but in good condition within. Salceda, I knew, had no knowledge of the true value of his stock, but priced articles in accordance with the status of the purchaser and his desire to acquire them. So, scarcely looking at the two volumes, he glanced appraisingly at my face and informed me that they were worth twenty pesetas. “Not to me,” I assured him, tossing the books upon the table. As I did so, one of the books slipped to the pavement, and as Miguel stooped to recover it, a piece of folded, stained and frayed paper dropped from between the leaves. “Bueno, then, how much will your excellency pay?” he asked, as he glanced at the paper in his hand and replaced the book. “Ten pesetas, no more,” I declared. “It is nothing, nothing for such fine old books,” he exclaimed, “but the Señor Ingles--or is it Americano--knows what he can pay. So ten pesetas it is, your excellency.” As I counted out the money, Salceda half-unfolded the piece of paper he still held, and then, evidently deciding it worthless, turned as if to toss it into a pile of rubbish. But something about the thing had attracted me. I had caught a glimpse of figures, of dull red, blue and green upon it, and, thinking it might be an old map, I stayed his hand. “Hold on,” I exclaimed. “That belongs to the book.” “No, Señor, I think not,” he said, as he squinted at it with his one good eye, “but perhaps a map, or some old picture left in the book by mistake. Of no value, your excellency; but the illustrious Americano--or is it Ingles--cares for old things, and this is very old. Si,” as he again focused his bulging eye upon it and cocked his head on one side. “Si, of a truth, I should say it is antediluvian!” He chuckled at his own humor. “So,” he continued, “if the Señor desires it--well, perhaps a peso or two.”