“I see.” The general was beginning to smile faintly now. “Because I am going to buy some rifles from you, you ask me what cities I am going to attack next.”
A slight disconcert played through Strawbridge at this bald statement, but he continued determinedly:
“That's the idea. If you are going to use my guns, I'm partners with you in your… er… expansion. That's American methods, General; that's straightforward and honest.”
General Fombombo drew in his lips, bit them thoughtfully, and considered Strawbridge. No man with a rudimentary knowledge of human nature could have doubted the drummer's complete sincerity. The general seemed to be repressing a smile.
“Suppose we step into my study, here, a moment, Señor Strawbridge. We might discuss my… my business, as you put it, if you will excuse its prematurity.”
“That's what I ' m here for—business,” said Strawbridge, earnestly, as he passed in at a door which the dictator opened.
A wall map was the most conspicuous feature of General Fombombo's library, a huge wall map of Venezuela which covered the entire west wall of the room. As the two men entered, only the lower third of this cartograph was revealed by reading-lamps ranged along tables, but the general switched on a frieze of ceiling lights and swept the whole projection into high illumination.
The general stood looking at it meditatively, glanced at his watch as if timing some other engagement, then pointed out to Strawbridge that the greater part of the chart was outlined in blue, while the extreme western end of the Orinoco Valley was in red.
“That is my life work, Señor Strawbridge—extending this red outline of the free and independent state of Rio
