“Wages!  What does he want with money here?  He gets his food from my kitchen and his clothing from the store.  Of course I’ll give him something at the end of the year, but you don’t think I’d employ a convict and give him the same money I would give an honest man?  I am looking after the interests of my company first and last.”

I admitted that, for a company spending fifty thousand pounds every year in advertising, the strictest economy was obviously necessary.  The manager of the Maranon Estancia grunted approvingly.

“And I’ll tell you what,” he continued:  “if I were certain he’s an anarchist and he had the cheek to ask me for money, I would give him the toe of my boot.  However, let him have the benefit of the doubt.  I am perfectly willing to take it that he has done nothing worse than to stick a knife into somebody—­with extenuating circumstances—­French fashion, don’t you know.  But that subversive sanguinary rot of doing away with all law and order in the world makes my blood boil.  It’s simply cutting the ground from under the feet of every decent, respectable, hard-working person.  I tell you that the consciences of people who have them, like you or I, must be protected in some way; or else the first low scoundrel that came along would in every respect be just as good as myself.  Wouldn’t he, now?  And that’s absurd!”

He glared at me.  I nodded slightly and murmured that doubtless there was much subtle truth in his view.

The principal truth discoverable in the views of Paul the engineer was that a little thing may bring about the undoing of a man.

“Il ne faut pas beaucoup pour perdre un homme,” he said to me, thoughtfully, one evening.

I report this reflection in French, since the man was of Paris, not of Barcelona at all.  At the Maranon he lived apart from the station, in a small shed with a metal roof and straw walls, which he called mon atelier.  He had a work-bench there.  They had given him several horse-blankets and a saddle—­not that he ever had occasion to ride, but because no other bedding was used by the working-hands, who were all vaqueros—­cattlemen.  And on this horseman’s gear, like a son of the plains, he used to sleep amongst the tools of his trade, in a litter of rusty scrap-iron, with a portable forge at his head, under the work-bench sustaining his grimy mosquito-net.

Now and then I would bring him a few candle ends saved from the scant supply of the manager’s house.  He was very thankful for these.  He did not like to lie awake in the dark, he confessed.  He complained that sleep fled from him.  “Le sommeil me fuit,” he declared, with his habitual air of subdued stoicism, which made him sympathetic and touching.  I made it clear to him that I did not attach undue importance to the fact of his having been a convict.

Thus it came about that one evening he was led to talk about himself.  As one of the bits of candle on the edge of the bench burned down to the end, he hastened to light another.