hand like that? You want to abandon your friends: And partisan discipline, what of that, my dear idiot?"
Biriba's dismissal would suit no one.
Who could be of greater service? They recalled the former postmen, rude fellows, unwilling even to bring a paper of needles to anyone. He must not leave. He must sacrifice himself for Itaóca.
However the daily torture of having his insides shaken up along seven leagues ended by loosening the cement of his political loyalty. The martyr's eyes were opened. He remembered with longing the ominous days of Colonel Evandro, the delights of the bar and even the degrading cat's paw service of electioneering days. Things had grown worse undoubtedly after the victory.
This free examination of conscience, believe me, was the beginning of the downfall of Colonel Fidencio. Biriba, the staunch support, was rotting at the base. He would fall and with him the roof of that political shanty. In his harassed soul the viper of treason made its nest . . . .
As the new election was approaching, new victory only meant a new three years of martyrdom for the postman. Biriba confabulated with his mare and decided that the salvation of both lay in defeat. He would be dismissed and, veteran and martyr of Fidencio's party, he would continue to warrant the support of the party without suffering through his bruised haunches the hateful contact of the seven daily hours of shake-up.
