But Madariaga came to the defense of his grandson. "Ah, the fine
cowboy!" . . . Seeing him again on the ranch, he admired the dash of the
good looking youth, testing his muscles in order to convince himself
of their strength, and making him to recount his nightly escapades as
ringleader of a band of toughs in the Capital. He longed to go to Buenos
Aires himself, just to see the youngster in the midst of this gay, wild
life. But alas! he was not seventeen like his grandson; he had already
passed eighty.
"Come here, you false prophet! Tell me how many children you have. . . .
You must have a great many children, you know!"
"Father!" protested Chicha who was always hanging around, fearing her
parent's bad teachings.
"Stop nagging at me!" yelled the irate old fellow in a towering temper.
"I know what I'm saying."
Paternity figured largely in all his amorous fancies. He was almost
blind, and the loss of his sight was accompanied by an increasing mental
upset. His crazy senility took on a lewd character, expressing itself in
language which scandalized or amused the community.
"Oh, you rascal, what a pretty fellow you are!" he said, leering at
Julio with eyes which could no longer distinguish things except in a
shadowy way. "You are the living image of my poor dead wife. . . . Have
a good time, for Grandpa is always here with his money! If you could
only count on what your father gives you, you would live like a hermit.
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