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Strawbridge stared at his consul—a very honest blue-eyed stare.

“Not allowed? ”Who doesn't allow it, Mr. Anderson? Why, look here—“ he straightened his back as there dawned on him the enormity of this personal infringement of his right to sell firearms whenever and wherever be found a buyer—”why the hell can't I sell rifles and—“

“Forbidden by the Government,” interposed Mr. Anderson, patly.

Strawbridge was outraged.

“Now, is n't that a hell of a law! No reason at all, I suppose. Like their custom laws. They don't tax you for what you bring into this God-forsaken country; they tax you for the mistakes you make in saying what you've brought in. They look over your manifest and charge you for the errors you've made in Spanish grammar. Venezuela's correspondence course in the niceties of the Castilian tongue!”

The consul again smiled wearily.

“They have a better reason than that for forbidding rifles —revolutions. You know in this country they stage at least one revolution every forty-eight hours. The minute any Venezuelan gets hold of a gun he steps out and begins to shoot up the Government. If he wings the President, he gets the President's place. It's a very lucrative place, very. It's about the only job in this country worth a cuss. So you see there's a big reason for forbidding the importation of arms into Venezuela.”

Mr. Strawbridge drew down his lips in disgust.

“Good Lord! Ain't that rotten! When will this leather-colored crew ever get civilized? Here I am—paid my fare from New York down here just to find out nobody buys firearms in this sizzling hell-hole; can't be trusted with 'em!”

In the pause at this point Mr. Anderson still twirled his guest's card. He glanced toward the front of his consulate,