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“Seño', did you know that the Orinoco River and the Amazon connect with each other up about the Rio Negro?”

“I think I've heard it. Didn't some fellow go through there studying orchids, or something? A man was telling me something about that in Trinidad.”

“He went through studying everything, seño',” said the black man, solemnly. “You are thinking of the great savant, Humboldt.”

“M—yes,… Humboldt.” Strawbridge repeated the name vaguely, not quite able to place it.

“I would suggest that you follow Herr Humboldt's route, seño'. You can carry the bullion down in boats and get it exchanged for drafts in Rio.”

A dizzy foreshadowing of Indian canoes laden with treasure, pushing through choked tropical waterways, shook the drummer. He drew a long breath.

“Is it a practical route? I mean, does anybody know the way? Do you think it can be done?”

“I would hardly say practical, seño'. It has been done.” The negro and the white man stood looking at each other.

“How do I… er… how does any one get to Rio Negro?” asked the drummer, nervously.

“You will need some person to pilot you, seño': some black man would make a good guide.”

“Now, I just imagine he would,” said Strawbridge, drawing in his lips and biting them. “Yes, sir, I imagine he would—” He broke off and suddenly became direct: “When do we start?”

“When you feel like it, seño'—now, if you are ready.”

“I stay ready. How do we get there?” He asked the question with a vague feeling that the black man might climb up to the roof of the blue house and show him a flyingmachine.

“I have a little motor around at the garage, seño'.”