His
boots were well polished, and his poncho, or cloak, of the finest
blue cloth, lined with scarlet.
It must have taken Don Anastacio a couple of hours each morning to get
himself up in this fashion, ringlets and all, and once up he did
nothing but sit in the living-room, sipping bitter mate and taking
part from time to time in the general conversation, speaking always in
low but impressive tones. He would say something about the weather,
the lack or superabundance of water, according to the season, the
condition of his animals and the condition of the pasture--in fact,
just what everybody else was saying but of more importance as coming
from him. All listened to his words with the profoundest attention and
respect, and no wonder, since most of those who sat in his living-
room, sucking mate, were his poor relations who fed on his bounty.
Don Anastacio was the last of a long line of estancieros once rich in
land and cattle, but for generations the Canada Seca estate had been
dwindling as land was sold, and now there was little left, and the
cattle and horses were few, and only a small flock of sheep kept just
to provide the house with mutton. His poor relations living scattered
about the district knew that he was not only an improvident but an
exceedingly weak and soft-hearted man, in spite of his grand manner,
and many of the poorest among them had been allowed to build their
ranches on his land and to keep a few animals for their sustenance:
most of these had built their hovels quite close to the estancia
house, behind the plantation, so that it was almost like a hamlet at
this point.
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