"Twenty-five thousand," repeated Fombombo.
A jubilant sensation went through the drummer at the hugeness of the order. He jotted something in his book.
"When do you want them delivered?"
"As soon as I can get them."
Strawbridge made soft, blurry noises of approval, nodding as he wrote.
"And how shipped?"
All through this little colloquy the general seemed rather at sea. At last he said:
"We can arrange these details later, Señor Strawbridge."
The drummer suddenly turned his full-power selling-talk on his prospect. This was the pinch, this was where he either "put it across" or failed. For just this crisis his sales manager had drilled him day after day. He turned on the dictator and began in an earnest, almost a religious tone: