The black editor looked up and stared.
"Take you!"
"Sí, señor, me. This caballero—" he nodded at Strawbridge—"promised to take me along for the courtesy of directing him to ... well ... to a certain address."
Strawbridge heard this with the surprise an American always feels when a Latin street-runner begins manufacturing charges for his service.
"The devil I did! I said nothing about taking you along. I didn't know where I was going. I still don't know."
"Caramba!" The man with the hair spread his hands in amazement. "Did I not say we would go to the same address, and did not you agree to it!"
"But, you damn fool, you know I meant the address here in Caracas! Good Lord! you know I didn't propose to take you a thousand miles!"
The man with the hair made a strong gesture.
"That's not Lubito, señor!" he declared. "That's not Lubito. When a man attaches himself to me in friendly confidence, I'm not the man to break with him the moment he has served my purpose. No, I will see you through!"