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that peculiar mechanical talk of business, markets, prices, which was so dear to his heart, had not come off very well.

“There has been, I believe, an advance in some prices and a decline in others,” generalized Gumersindo; “the usual seasonal fluctuations.”

“Si, gracias,” acknowledged the general. “Señor Gumersindo, during Señor Strawbridge's residence in Canalejos, you will kindly furnish him the daily market quotations.”

“Sí, señor.”

The matter of business was settled and disposed of. Came that slight hiatus in which hosts wait for a guest to decide what shall be the next topic. The drummer thought rapidly over his repertoire; he thought of baseball, of Teilman's race in the batting column; one or two smoking-car jokes popped into his head but were discarded. He considered discussing the probable Republican majority Ohio would show in the next presidential election. He had a little book in his vest pocket which gave the vote by states for the past decade. In Pullman smoking-compartments the drummer had found it to be an arsenal of debate. He could make terrific political forecasts and prove them by this little book. But, with his very fingers on it, he decided against talking Ohio politics to an insurgent general in Rio Negro. His thoughts boggled at business again, at the prices of things, when he glanced about and saw Lubito, who had been entirely neglected during this colloquy. The drummer at once seized on his companion to bridge the hiatus. He drew the espada to him with a gesture.

“General Fombombo,” he said with a salesman's ebullience, “meet Señor Lubito. Señor Lubito is a bull-fighter, General, and they tell me he pulls a nasty sword.”

The general nodded pleasantly to the torero.

“I am very glad you have come to Canalejos, Señor Lubito. I think I shall order in some bulls and have an