A few packages were always found for him whenever he
took the road. Very brown and wooden, in goatskin breeches with the
hair outside, he sat near the tail of his own smart mule, his great hat
turned against the sun, an expression of blissful vacancy on his long
face, humming day after day a love-song in a plaintive key, or, without
a change of expression, letting out a yell at his small tropilla in
front. A round little guitar hung high up on his back; and there was a
place scooped out artistically in the wood of one of his pack-saddles
where a tightly rolled piece of paper could be slipped in, the wooden
plug replaced, and the coarse canvas nailed on again. When in Sulaco
it was his practice to smoke and doze all day long (as though he had
no care in the world) on a stone bench outside the doorway of the Casa
Gould and facing the windows of the Avellanos house. Years and years
ago his mother had been chief laundry-woman in that family--very
accomplished in the matter of clear-starching. He himself had been
born on one of their haciendas. His name was Bonifacio, and Don Jose,
crossing the street about five o'clock to call on Dona Emilia, always
acknowledged his humble salute by some movement of hand or head.
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