Drifter's Luck

THAT'S a lot of tripe. How long have you been around here, anyway? Uh-huh. About two weeks. So now you know all about Venezuela and its people. And you'll be going back North on the next boat to write a book about it all: the great llanos, and the rough old Rio Orinoco, and the unexplored mountains and wild Indian tribes and so on. One more of those things.

No? Well, that's something. More than one book has been written that way, I hear. Fact is, I just lately read one myself, by an Englishman named Wigglewell. And they say he did all his intrepid exploring right here in this barroom. Anyway, the book's a horse laugh to anybody that knows this country. Come to think of it, what you just said sounded like him. And you're grinning. Trying to get a rise out of me, maybe?

All right, you got it, and I'll buy. Clap your hands, and the waiter will come along. Sorry I can't. This left hand of mine is hors de combat, as us frogs say. Broke two fingers the other night. Doing what?

Well, not knitting. They say he will be out of the hospital next week Well, now, Mr.--er--I didn't quite catch it. Mack? Glad to know you. Hart's mine. Hart. Don't get me mixed up with the lad I'm going to tell you about. His name's Dugan. Sure, another frog, from the same green island the Harts and Macks came from, away back.

Now you said--or Wigglewell did--this country is unfit for white men, except here in Caracas and a few other big towns. A country of savages and half-breed cutthroats, held down only by the thin top crust of pure white Spaniards. Pure? Cripes! Show me one!

That's what Dugan would say, anyway. And I'll tell you why...