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“Precisely. Wantzelius had Pina assassinated, Toro Tonne overthrew Wantzelius, Cancio betrayed and exiled Toro Tonne…”

The American arms salesman stood on the stairs of Calvario, beneath the broken pedestals, and began to laugh. “Well, that's a hell of a way to change presidents—shoot 'em—run 'em off—exile 'em! It's just exactly like these greaser Latin countries!” He sat down on the stairs in the hot sunshine and laughed till the tears rolled out of his eyes.

The thick-set negro stood looking at him with a queer expression.

“It… seems to amuse you, señor?”

Strawbridge drew out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. He blew out a long breath.

“It is funny! Just like a movie I saw in Keokuk. It waB called ‘Maid in Mexico,’ and it showed how these damned greasers batted along in any crazy old way; and here is the wreckage of just some such rough stuff.” He looked up at the broken pedestals again with his face set for mirth, but his jaws ached too badly to laugh any more. He drew a deep breath and became near-sober.

Just below him stood the negro, like a black shadow in the sunshine. He stared with a solemn face over the city with its sea of red-tiled roofs, its domes and campaniles, and the blue peaks of the Andes beyond. Abruptly he turned to Strawbridge.

“Listen, señor,” he said tensely, and held up a finger. “My country has lived in mortal agony ever since Bolivar himself fell from his seat of power amid red rebellion, but there is a man who will remedy Venezuela's age-long wounds; there is a man great enough and generous enough—”

At this point some remnant of mirth caused Strawbridge to compress his lips to keep from laughing again. The dark