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how many rifles do we want shipped here!” As he asked this question he used his left hand to draw a leather-covered book from his hip pocket, while with his right he plucked a fountain-pen from his vest pocket. With a practised flirt he flung open his order-book at a rubber-band marker. Thus mobilized, he looked with bright expectation at his prospect.

The general seemed a little at loss.

“Do you mean how many rifles I want!”

Strawbridge nodded, and repeated in an intimate, confident tone, “Yes; how many do we want?” The pronoun followed up the impression of how thoroughly he had identified himself with the interest of his customer.

Fombombo hesitated a moment, then asked aloud:

“Coronel Saturnino, how many rifles do we want?”

The young colonel did not pause in his work.

“Twenty-five thousand, General.” His brain seemed to be a card-index.

“Twenty-five thousand,” repeated Fombombo.

A jubilant sensation went through the drummer at the hugeness of the order. He jotted something in his book.

“When do you want them delivered?”

“As soon as I can get them.”

Strawbridge made soft, blurry noises of approval, nodding as he wrote.

“And how shipped?”

All through this little colloquy the general seemed rather at sea At last he said:

“We can arrange these details later, Señor Strawbridge.”

The drummer suddenly turned his full-power selling-talk on his prospect. This was the pinch, this was where he either “put it across” or failed. For just this crisis his sales manager had drilled him day after day. He turned on the dictator and began in an earnest, almost a religious tone: