expedition would care to set out across the llanos without a bull-fighter or two.”
If he hoped by voice and manner to discourage Lubito's attendance, he was disappointed. The fellow walked briskly back and was the first man in the car.
The other two men followed, and as the motor clacked away down the calle Lubito resumed the role of cicerone, cheerfully pointing out to Strawbridge the sights of Caracas. There was the palace of President Cancio; there was an old church built by the Canary Islanders who made a settlement in this part of Caracas long before the colonies revolted against Spain.
“There is La Rotunda, señor, where they keep the political prisoners. It is very easy to get in there.” Whether this was mere tourist information or a slight flourish of the whip-hand, which Lubito undoubtedly held, Strawbridge did not know.
“Have they got many prisoners?” he asked casually.
“It's full,” declared the bull-fighter, with gusto. “The overflow goes to Los Castillos, another prison on the Orinoco near Ciudad Bolívar, and also to San Carlos on Lake Maracaibo, in the western part of Venezuela.”
“What have so many men done, that all the prisons are jammed?” asked the drummer, becoming interested.
It was Gumersindo who answered this question, and with passion:
“Señor Strawbridge, those prisons are full of men who are innocent and guilty. Some have attempted to assassinate the President, some to stir up revolution; some are merely suspected. A number of men are put in prison simply to force through some business deal advantageous to the governmental clique. I know one editor who has been confined in the dungeons of La Rotunda for ten years. His offense was that in his paper he proposed a man as a candidate for the presidency.”
