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then toward the rear. The two Americans were alone. With his enigmatic smile still wrinkling his tropic-sagged face, the consul said in a slightly lower tone:

“I didn't say no one bought firearms in Venezuela, Mr. Strawbridge. I said they were not allowed to be sold here.”

“O-o-oh, I se-e-e!” Mr. Strawbridge's ejaculation curved up and down as enlightenment broke upon him, and he stared fixedly at his consul.

“All I meant to say was that the trade is curtailed as much as possible, in order to prevent bloodshed, suffering, and the crimes of civil war.”

Mr. Strawbridge continued his nodding and his absorbed gaze.

“But, still, some of it goes on—of course.”

“Naturally,” nodded Strawbridge.

“I suppose,” continued the consul, reflectively,“ that every month sees a considerable number of arms introduced into Venezuela, as far as that goes.”

Strawbridge watched his consul as a cat watches a mousehole—for something edible to appear.

“Yes?” he murmured interrogatively.

“Well, there you are,” finished the consul.

Strawbridge looked his disappointment.

“There I am?” he said in a pained voice. “Well, I must say I am not very far from where you started with me; am I?” “It seems to me you are somewhat advanced,” began the diplomat, philosophically. “You know why you haven't sold anything up to date. You know why you can't approach a Venezuelan casually to sell him guns, as if you were offering him stoves or shoe-polish.” The consul was still smiling faintly, and now he drew a scratch-pad toward him and began making aimless marks on it after the fashion of office men. “In fact, to attempt to sell guns at all would be quite against