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OW that his role of ignoramus and lout had been played, the black man introduced himself as Guillermo Gumersindo and glided into the usual selfexplanatory conversation. He was sure Señor Strawbridge would pardon his buffoonery, but one had to be careful when a police visitation was threatened. He was the editor of a newspaper in Canalejos, “El Correo del Rio Negro,” a newspaper, if he did say it, more ardently devoted to Venezuelan history than any other publication in the republic. Gumersindo had been chosen by General Fombombo to make this purchasing expedition to Caracas just because he was black and could drop easily into a lowly role.

To the ordinary white American an educated negro is an object of curious interest, and Strawbridge strolled along the streets of Caracas with a feeling toward the black editor much the same as one has toward the educated pony which can paw out its name from among the letters of the alphabet.

Gumersindo's historical interest exhibited itself as he and Strawbridge passed through the mercado, a plaza given over to hucksters and flower-venders, in the heart of Caracas. The black man pointed out a very fine old Spanish house of blue marble, with a great coat of arms carved over the door:

“Where Bolivar lived.” Gumersindo made a curving gesture and bowed as if he were introducing the building. The American looked at the house.

“Bolivar,” he repeated vaguely.

The editor opened his eyes slightly.

“Sí, señor; Bolivar the Libertador.”