He was here, he declared, to purchase arms--2,000
stands of Winchester rifles--for the Colombian revolutionists. He
had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York
correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were
shouting their political secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was
as loud as the General. He pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine;
he roared to his friend that his errand was a secret one, and not to be
hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley himself was stirred to
sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General's hand across the table.
"Monseer," he said, earnestly, "I don't know where this country of yours
is, but I'm for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United States,
though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us Columbia, too,
sometimes. It's a lucky thing for you that you butted into me to-night.
I'm the only man in New York that can get this gun deal through for you.
The Secretary of War of the United States is me best friend. He's in the
city now, and I'll see him for you to-morrow. In the meantime, monseer,
you keep them drafts tight in your inside pocket. I'll call for you
to-morrow, and take you to see him.
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