unfolded it and with the same emptiness of gaze fixed his eyes on the message.
“It goes to General Fombombo,” explained Strawbridge.
“Gen'l Fombombo,” repeated the negro, as if he were memorizing an unknown name.
“Yes, and inside it says that… er… ah… it says that I am an honest man.”
“A honest man.”
“Yes, that's what it says.”
“I thought you was a Americano, seño'.”
Strawbridge looked at the negro, but his humble expression appeared guileless.
“I am an American,” he nodded. “Now, just hand that to your master and tell him he can communicate with me at the Hotel Bolivia.” Strawbridge was about to go.
“Sí, seño',” nodded the servant, throwing away the mango stone.“ I tell him about de Americano. I heard about yo' country, seño', el grand America del Norte; so cold in de rainy season you freeze to death, so hot in de dry season you drap dead. Sí, seño', but ever'body rich—dem what ain't froze to death or drap dead.”
“Sounds like you'd been there,” said the drummer, gravely.
“I never was, but I wish I could go. Do you need a servant in yo' line o' business, seño'?”
“I don't believe I do.”
“Don't you sell things?”
“Sometimes.”
“What, seño'?”
“I sell—” then, recalling the private nature of this particular prospect, he finished—“almost anything any one will buy.”
This answer apparently satisfied the garrulous black, who nodded and pursued his childish curiosity:
