"What will happen tomorrow then, when we make our deliveries?" "How do I know?" The next day when the delivery men began their rounds, a policeman accosted them: "Have you your numbers?" "No, sir; they are not ready yet." "Well, come with me then, to the police station." And that was the last of our bread. The Caid of Mechuar in Morocco favoured his subjects in some such fashion several years since, but the Moors, being men of spirit, fell on him one day, and left him at death's door on a dung heap. Meanwhile, Sánchez de Toca continues to talk nonsense in these parts, and is considered by some to be one of the bulwarks of the country. I could spin many a tale of tyranny in high places, and almost as many, no doubt, of the pettinesses of workingmen. But what is the good? Why stir up my bile? In progressive incarnations, I have now passed through those of baker and petty tradesman. I am no longer an employer who exploits the workingman, nor can I see that I ever did so. If I have exploited workers merely because I employed them, all that was some time ago. I support myself by my writings now, although it is quite proper to state that I live on very little. XII AS A WRITER My pre-literary career was three-fold: I was a student for eight years, during two a village doctor, and for six more a baker. These having elapsed, being already close upon thirty, I began to write. My new course was a wise one. It was the best thing that I could have done; anything else would have annoyed me more and have pleased me less. I have enjoyed writing, and I have made some money, although not much, yet it has been sufficient to enable me to travel, which otherwise I should not have been able to do. The first considerable sum which I received was upon the publication of my novel _The Mayorazgo of Labraz_. Henrich of Barcelona paid me two thousand pesetas for it. I invested the two thousand pesetas in a speculation upon the Bourse, and they disappeared in two weeks. The money which I have received for my other books, I have employed to better purpose. BOHEMIA I have never been a believer in the absurd myth called Bohemia. The idea of living gaily and irresponsibly in Madrid, or in any other Spanish city, without taking thought for the morrow, is so preposterous that it passes comprehension. Bohemia is utterly false in Paris and London, but in Spain, where life is difficult, it is even more of a cheat. Bohemia is not only false, it is contemptible. It suggests to me a minor Christian sect, of the most inconsequential degree, nicely calculated for the convenience of hangers on at cafés. Henri Murger was the son of the wife of a _concièrge_. Of course, this would not have mattered had his outlook upon life not been that of the son of the wife of a _concièrge_. OUR OWN GENERATION