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Once, Arrellano offered him a couple of dollars. Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head. When Vera joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said: "I am working for the Revolution." It takes money to raise a modern revolution, and always the Junta was pressed.
Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of his youth. May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they of the Junta been more economical in the past. "To think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a few paltry thousands of dollars," said Paulino Vera. Despair was in all their faces.
He repelled all probing. Youth that he was, they could never nerve themselves to dare to question him. "A great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not know," Arrellano said helplessly. "He is not human," said Ramos. "His soul has been seared," said May Sethby. "Light and laughter have been burned out of him. He is like one dead, and yet he is fearfully alive."
And yet again, for irregular periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day, from early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early and remained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting type with fresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, new-split, that still bled. The time of the crisis approached.
His eyes rested on hers but an instant she had chanced to look up and she, too, sensed the nameless something that made her pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain the swing of the letter she was writing. Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and questioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision of doubt brooded in their eyes.
Not even God would he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion." "I feel like a child before him," Ramos confessed. "To me he is power he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the striking rattlesnake, the stinging centipede," said Arrellano. "He is the Revolution incarnate," said Vera.
There were occasions when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles were bruised and battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, when one arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn with unspoken pain. "A wastrel," said Arrellano. "A frequenter of low places," said Ramos. "But where does he get the money?" Vera demanded.
Likewise had gone the plain gold band from May Setbby's third finger. Things were desperate. Ramos and Arrellano pulled their long mustaches in despair. The letters must go off, and the Post Office allowed no credit to purchasers of stamps. Then it was that Rivera put on his hat and went out. When he came back he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on May Sethby's desk.
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