Then he would go back to his place at the window, and strum on his guitar.
The reader must acknowledge that there was no opportunity for applying one’s mind to methodical, engrossing, and difficult study in a house where such scenes occurred every moment of the day. The bursts of laughter, alternating with frequent squabbles; the racing up and down the halls; the continual going in and out of lazy fellows who, not knowing how to kill time, endeavor to make the studious ones lose it; the irregularity of our meals; the confidential way we had of living in each other’s rooms; the being up all night, and getting out of bed at midday, did not greatly help a student to win distinction in the School of Engineering. On the other hand, the contagion of joking and mirth could not possibly be withstood at my age.
Other students boarded there; some attending the University, others the School of Mountain Engineering, and others the School of Architecture; but none of them was a prodigy of learning. Perhaps I was ahead of them all in diligent application to my studies; but as my subjects were very difficult, it turned out that I found myself put over to the September examinations that year. Consequently I was obliged to spend my vacation in Madrid, and was unable to enjoy the cool breezes of my home in the province.
That summer would have been wearisome indeed, and unbearable, if I had not been surrounded by such jolly and frolicsome people, and if the good-natured Portuguese had not afforded us such fun by submitting to the endless pranks of Botello.
When there was no other way of killing an afternoon, little Dumas would snap his fingers and say, throwing back his perspiring head so as to brush away the thick black mane, which was suffocating him:
“Let us play a trick on Corno de Boy. Who will help me catch some bugs?”
“Yes, just make a cornucopia and fill it with bugs to the top. The small ones will not do; they must be big ones.”
Then every one would go to his room to engage in the strange hunt. Unfortunately, it was not difficult. As soon as we searched under our beds, or our pillows, we would quickly collect a dozen or more fearful fellows. We would carry our tributes to the inventor of the practical joke, and he would put them all together. As soon as we knew that the Portuguese was in bed, we would take off our shoes, and, repressing our desire to laugh, would station ourselves at his door. As soon as Don Miguel began to snore, Botello would softly raise the latch, and, as the headboard was next the door, all that the imp of an artist had to do was to open the cornucopia and scatter the contents over the head and face of the sleeping man. After this was accomplished, Botello would close the door very quietly, while we, convulsed with laughter, and pinching one another in sheer excitement, would wait for the pitched battle to begin. Hardly two minutes would elapse before we would hear the Portuguese turn over in bed. Then we would hear broken and unintelligible phrases; then strong ejaculations; then the scratching of a match, and his astonished exclamation, “By Jove!”