And Blum: “Because you mean you had bet on the horse to win? Good God, you had bet all that money to win on a man who . . .”

And Iglésia, still in that low, reflective, stubborn voice: “Not on him. On her. On that horse . . . And then he didn’t ride so badly. Only he was too nervous, and she felt it. Horses are funny that way. They can guess things. If he hadn’t been so nervous he would have come in first without even needing to use his stick.”

And Blum: “And so then after that she didn’t want to use any but yours? Hell, you’re no prize package, you know!” And Iglésia not answering, carefully stamping out the last embers of the fire and covering them with dirt, looking more than ever (in that ridiculous costume, that huge dirt-coloured bile-coloured coat from which his tiny hands and his bilious, muddy, aquiline face emerged) like some Punch-and-Judy character saying: “If those damn Jerries see we’ve eaten our mess here we’ll never hear the end of it . . . And tomorrow we should try to get to the head of the line at the tool shed, because they give out the shovels first and by the time we get there there’s nothing left but picks and then you’ve got a sore arm all day because with a shovel all you have to do is pretend to work but if you have to lift one of those pickaxes each time instead of . . .”