"Pontes overseer! He! he! he!"
"But …"
"Let me laugh, man, you don't hear this sort of thing in the country very often. He! he! he! Splendid! I have always said there was no wit like Pontes! None!"
And shouting within doors:
"Maria, come and hear Pontes' latest. He! he! he!"
That day the unfortunate wag wept. He understood that one cannot destroy overnight what has taken years to form. His reputation as a funny man, as a joker, as inimitable, as monumental, was built of far too good mortar and cement to crumble so soon.
However, it was necessary to change his mode of life and Pontes began to reflect on government employment, the most convenient and only possible master in this abstract case, because it neither knows how to laugh, nor does it know from close observation the cells whence laughter arises. This master, and this one alone, would take him seriously—the road to salvation, therefore, lay in that direction.
He studied the possibility of a postoffice agency, notary office, collector's office and others. Weighing well the pros and cons, trumps and suits, he decided upon the choice of a federal collector's office, the occupant of which, a Major Bentes, being old and suffering from heart trouble, was not expected to last long. His aneurism was the talk of the town, the final break being expected at any moment.
