"Well, y-es," hesitated Strawbridge, with the complete reason of his going floating unsaid in his mind.
"No doubt you wish to make friends with the common people—the peons, the griffes, the mestizos, who make up this God-forsaken country, señor, and who are not of the pure Castilian blood as Esteban and I."
Strawbridge could not see whither this conversation was leading. He said, very honestly:
"Naturally; I want to make friends with every one."
"We thought so," nodded the torero; "we observed how you speak to all persons, great and small, how you stop on the street to give moral advice even to the lottery-ticket venders, how you sympathize with the unfortunate Josefa, and say conditions should be changed. Yes, you certainly are very careful to make friends with every one."
Strawbridge was surprised that the bull-fighter had so complete a digest of his most trivial acts. Also, here and there in Lubito's tones flickered an insinuation of some hidden meaning which annoyed the drummer.
"Look here," he said frankly. "What are you driving at? You know I rode from Caracas with you. You know I'm selling firearms to the general, and hardware to anybody else."
"Sí, señor," agreed Lubito, politely, "but why should you seek to make friends with this fellow and that fellow—the lowest and the meanest?"
The drummer was a little irritated.