“How I could get paid at all?”
The negro nodded humbly, and his dialect grew a trifle worse:
“You see, if anybody was to go an' put a lot o' money in de banks here in Caracas, most likely de Guv'ment would snatch it right at once.”
Strawbridge came to attention and stood studying the African.
“How would the Government ever know!” he asked carefully.
“How would you ever keep 'em from knowin'?” retorted the negro. “How could anybody, seño', even a po' fool nigger like me, drive a string o' ox-carts through de country, loaded wid gold, drive up to the bank do' an' pile out sacks o' gold an' not have everybody in Caracas know all about it?”
The suggestion of gold, of wagon-loads of gold delivered to banks, sent a sensation through Strawbridge as if he had been a harp on which some musician had struck a mighty chord. As he stood staring at the black man his mouth went slightly dry and he moistened his lips with his tongue.
“I see the trouble,” he said in a queer voice.
His vis-à-vis nodded silently.
The negro with the mango juice on his face and the trig white man stood studying each other in the blue entrance.
“Well,” said Strawbridge, at least, “how will I get the money?”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Impossible, señor.”
Strawbridge was getting on edge. He laughed nervously.
“You seem to know more about… er… certain conditions in this country than I do. What would you suggest?”
The black cocked his head a little to one side.
